Colouring Hearts
by Intricacy
Summary: Stopping short of leaving the alleyway, Tom asks, "Have you ever had a Butterbeer?" She has. "No," she says instead. GWTR - a rather different time travel novella. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Colouring Hearts**

I'm having difficulty with Final Riddles.

First is the lack of inspiration. So I reread the previous chapters I've published, and found them to be lackluster. I feel like Ginny recovered too quickly, again.

I don't want to rewrite the story again, because God knows I'll never finish it that way. I guess I'll just continue along that vein and bear it through, but for now – something else.

Enjoy, and please review!

* * *

"Stay."

Their foreheads are touching. The words are whispered into her lips, which are only a breath away from his.

She feels a thundering heartbeat in their intertwined hands.

"Okay."

Where else could she go?

…

Her nights are hot.

But not like summer's sticky heat. This fire claws and screams, hammering against her ribcage and gnawing on her flesh.

When her eyes open from a restless slumber, the first thing she sees is the color of anguish.

The color doesn't fade out entirely by the time the sun sets again and the fire starts to simmer back into her lungs before it swallows her whole.

She's been colored blind by a combination of despair and desperation – and a little bit of last minute spite.

…

"Hello." Her voice is smooth, sweet. "What's your name?"

"Roy, and this is Matilda."

She nods, exhaling slowly. "I'm Ginny. You wouldn't have happened to see a dark-haired boy named Tom, would you?"

"No, sorry."

"I thought not. Thanks anyways."

…

There's more than one color in her world when her mind retires to its dream state and her body churns in agitation. There are shapes here, too. And voices.

Sometimes they're angry. Most of the time, they're loud and they deafen her.

But tonight, they're quiet, and they're sad.

For her, the aria that plays marches to a rhythm of acceptance and good-bye kisses.

This song is no war cry.

But neither is it a lullaby.

…

The glass is cool and calming to touch, and it clashes horribly with the drums of battle that pound relentlessly in her heart.

_Thump, thump._

She presses her hands flat against the glass, and it slides easily to the left.

_Thump, thump._

There's something different in this compartment, she muses as her eyelids flutter shut. A sharp, spicy sort of aroma that stands out from the musky scents that surround, and she instinctively takes a step back, repulsion lining some corner of her heart.

Her lips part to speak the recited words, but it takes a little more effort to push them out – and when they do tumble from her mouth, they come out chapped. "Hello," she says. "What's your name?"

She knows the answer before she hears it, but still her stomach wrenches when he speaks. "Tom."

"I'm Ginny," she introduces. And now, new words: "Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

Time skips a beat and it's silent, before she crosses the compartment threshold and seats herself opposite the boy, staring vaguely outside the window. Beneath her, the train rumbles to an ugly chant that echoes hollowly in her mind: _they're dead, they're gone. they're dead, they're gone. they're dead, they're gone…_

"Haven't you got a trunk?"

She looks up towards the boy. "I don't own anything to pack."

The train takes on a new chant.

_you're dead, you're gone. you're dead, you're gone. you're dead, you're gone. you're dead, you're gone…_

Something nudges her, nibbling at her throat. _Do something._

She doesn't. She sits still. She doesn't know _what _to do.

She can barely function on her own, and not even.

The rhythm begins to deviate on itself.

_you're dead, they're gone. they're gone, you're gone. they're dead, you're gone…_

"You're a first year," he observes, maybe from the lack of a house badge on her secondhand school uniform.

"Yes," she says. Then, to be polite, she asks, "Are you?"

She doesn't need to see his nod to know that he is. She's about to return to her windows before that itch nibbles her again, commanding her to speak. "Are you nervous about Hogwarts?"

"No," he answers stoutly.

The corners of her lips twitch upwards. It's a small smile, and not one with much mirth in it – she doesn't remember how to smile one of those happy smiles. But she's amused, dimly, by his pride and stubbornness. "I don't believe you."

"I'm not nervous," he insists, and his tone of voice has been knocked down a couple notes into something of a sustained growl, as if daring her to contradict him once more. He's just as angry and temperamental as she imagined he'd be, and only eleven years old – not yet old enough to control his fury into the calculated coldness he'd later master. "Like you'd know anything about me. Why don't you speak for yourself instead?"

She pulls away from his gaze and looks to the floor. "I'm petrified," she admits.

A somewhat uncomfortable silence settles afterwards on Tom's part, but Ginny is too distracted to consider the texture of the atmosphere. She decides she likes his open anger and his immaturity – it makes him seem less like Lord Voldemort and more like a boy. Maybe he is more mature than others his age, and better at masking over his emotions than most when his pride wasn't involved.

But he is, now, still entirely human, and that gives her a feeling she's rather unaccustomed to.

Once upon a time, she might've labeled that feeling as _hope_.

…

The doors of the Great Hall stand proudly before her when some twisted form of inspiration strikes.

She had climbed into the boats and back out with much difficulty, some coaxing, and a couple of hands as a few of her future classmates tittered about her obvious fear of water.

Their laughter didn't sting her in the least. At any rate, it wasn't the water she was terrified of, but she wasn't about to correct anyone when she sat in the boat, eyes clenched shut as the boat cradled from side to side while everyone else gasped at the sight of an illuminated castle rising from the fog.

Behind closed lids, she imagined the scene everyone else was witnessing. It was the best she could do as she gripped the edge of her seat.

"Tom," she suddenly whispers under her breath as the deputy headmaster concluded his introductory speech about houses and house points. "Can you promise me something?"

"What?" There's a base line of irritation humming behind his tone that she detects.

"They say – they say that some houses make enemies of other houses." The hall doors groan slightly, but they don't budge. She needs this promise before the doors open and they march towards the Sorting Hat. Hurriedly, she says, "Promise me you won't hate me, no matter what houses we're sorted into."

He doesn't answer, perhaps surprised by the strange request.

One final groan from the doors before the hinges give way and admit them entrance to the Great Hall.

As the cluster of first years begin to parade down the aisle, Ginny whispers, "Please. You're the only person I know."

Footsteps stop. They've reached the stool the hat perches upon.

"I don't know you well, but I know enough to say honestly that I don't want you to hate me."

The first name is called.

"Because I'd like to get to know you more."

A table erupts into cheers as another name is called, and a first year scampers away.

"I know that I – "

"Fine. I won't hate you, just stop talking," he mutters, almost drowned out by the roars and applause from the table beside them.

She smiles that broken smile of hers. "Deal."

From above, a familiar voice speaks an almost-familiar name. "Clearmonte, Ginny!"

The oversized hat slips forward and covers her eyes and ears when it's placed on her head just as before, and she's tense just as she was before – but this time, for a different reason.

_Ginny Weasley…_ the hat ponders. _Well, well, well. See how much you've changed._

Yes, she had changed.

_You used to love life fiercer than any other lion. _

Waking up painted the color of ash on the Chamber floor taught her to love life. To treasure it.

_Not so anymore…._

Watching others being painted the color of ash stripped the joys of living away.

_Maybe you'll remember your old flavor. Better be…_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

She smiles numbly and walks towards the cheering table.

…

She dreams of green eyes.

Someone catches her wrist, and she turns around. Green eyes are watching her.

"Don't go."

She hesitates, but she can't find her voice.

"Stay."

He can't do this.

"I can't. I have to try."

Her smile is decidedly forlorn.

"It'll be all right. You won't even miss me."

…

She feels his presence beside her. "Hello, Tom."

It's been two months since the start of term. Another couple of months of restless slumber.

"Congratulations on Slytherin, by the way. It's a good house. I think it suits you."

Reaching out, she places her palm over the feather that lies limply on her desk. She didn't have the chance to talk to him since the Sorting. She's always the first one in class, and he never chose to sit by her until today. And neither one ever sought each other's company alone.

"Thank you. Congratulations on Gryffindor," he offers.

She smiles politely, running a finger down the edge of the feather as an unsettled whisper nestles in the cavity of her chest. It's the crawling disease she's come to associate with the sharp scent that was his aura.

"You're quite talented, you know," he says boldly. "No one else can pick up a new spell as quickly as you."

She shakes her head, shifting slightly in her seat. She didn't think that he paid such close attention to her; she hadn't accounted for _him_ figuring out _her_. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around?

"That's not true," she disagrees. "You're always the first one to get it."

"But you always get it on the first try," he persists. "You just don't try until other people have already gotten the spell right. How do you do it?"

Ginny hesitates. "I listen," she says finally. "I listen to what people do right and what people do wrong, and then I taste the syllables for myself before I speak them."

That wouldn't be the first lie she's told him.

"It doesn't help me very much in Potions, though."

"Potions is just following directions."

She shrugs and rolls the handle of her wand around in her fingers. "Maybe."

_Wingardium leviosa_.

…

"It'll be all right. You won't even miss me. That's the beauty of it, isn't it?"

Green eyes are frozen.

"No. That's the problematic part of it."

His grip on her tightens, and her heart tightens with it.

* * *

I've always wanted to write a nonlinear piece, and this is my first experiment with it. It's rough, I know, but any and all feedback is very much appreciated. Reviews are a beautiful motivation for continuing x) Leave it signed, and I'll do my best to respond!


	2. Chapter 2

**Colouring Hearts**

* * *

New chapter, within a reasonable timeframe! Woooh!

Please keep me updated on your opinions with where it's headed, and how it's written. I've never done something like this before, so any and all feedback is much appreciated! And thanks to those that reviewed the last chapter!

Pacing especially is difficult for me in this story. I want it to be a short story – no more than 8 chapters, hopefully – and trying to cram in a backstory, a romance, and some major character development into 15k words is rough. So please let me know how you think it's coming along!

* * *

"What are you doing to me?"

His voice comes out strangled, broken, and it's so different from his usual composure that her head spins, and she almost breaks with him.

"What do you mean?"

"This." He's troubled and agitated, searching for words he doesn't know. "This goddamn _disease_ I suffer whenever I'm near you. Like suffocating. Like drowning in something sticky and warm. This infestation that's reduced my mind into a blurry fog."

"I…" She can't find any words, either. Within these few minutes, silence cloaks her world. There is nothing – no thought, no words. Even her heart hesitates to beat, and her mind doesn't dare to wonder, does this mean - ?

He slams a fist down on the table, and Ginny flinches as her suspended world crashes. Her heart begins to beat again in couplets like a throbbing wound. In these past six years that she's known him, he's never taken to physical outbursts.

His voice isn't broken anymore. It's hard, and it stings her. "Get out, Clearmonte. I don't want to see you, ever again."

If she didn't break before, she's surely broken now.

…

"Ginny!"

At the sound of her name, she stops her slow procession down the otherwise empty corridor. "Tom," she greets, and unconsciously she takes a step to the side, shifting a little bit away from him.

"How are you?" he asks, falling in step beside her.

She shrugs, her gaze still trained to the floor. "On my way to detention. You know, you were there."

"That was quite impressive, by the way. I mean that honestly. It looked like a rather complex hex, definitely not second-year level," he says, pausing for a moment before continuing. "What was that spell, by the way? How'd you learn it?"

"I did some studying outside of class," she says finally. "It's called a Bat-Bogey Hex."

"I'm sure it was deserved. Black has quite a shallow understanding of life," he muses. The edges of his voice are all smooth – a little too smooth to be completely natural. "What did she say that provoked you?"

"Nothing new." She hesitates. "Redburn was coming around to check everyone's spellwork, and when William failed to charm his rat yellow, she mocked his Muggle heritage. And he was right there." Just the thought infuriated her, and her voice began to crescendo. "And William has always been insecure about himself, and I didn't want him to believe in her utter _bullshit_, and it just reminds me of – " She breaks off and revels in her anger. "God, I haven't felt so much in years."

Thinking back to that morning in Charms, Ginny remembers the pinpricks of agitation that began to growl somewhere deep in her throat. She isn't sure why she reacted the way she did – Merlin knows how often Black had spouted off bigoted nonsense before, and Merlin knows that Black certainly isn't the only one who parades around blood prejudices. But she had been _tired_, and she was utterly sick of Black's condescending arrogance, and for a moment she had heard a sing-song voice in the back of her head.

_Is the little mudblood scared? Did she think she was going to catch the big, bad wolf and have her happily ever after? You know you could never do much, it's in your blood…_

"I should regret it, shouldn't I?" she muses. "That's what I'm supposed to feel. But I don't." She pauses, deciding how much more to say. "I've been living in a blanket of apathy lately, Tom. A mechanical life with no dynamics. But that morning, I _felt_ something, and I _did_ something. Emotion is something you can't force – and that morning, it _came_, and there was finally _something_ in my world, and it was beautiful."

She says all this without expecting him to understand – not him, not someone who finds emotion weak.

Two strangers continue their walk on the same stone floor in silence, each acutely aware of the other's presence – and each absorbed in their own thoughts.

…

Shadows of stone faces, drawn long towards the ground.

It's all she can see in the room dimly lit by wandlight. They've run out of candles a while back.

The soundtrack to this black-and-white film is weeping. She recognizes the sound of this particular brand of tears – it's the sound of her mum.

"Ginny. What do you know about universes?"

He holds out a folded piece of parchment. It is her award. Her certificate for a lifetime of torment.

"Take this. Come see me when you can bear to face me again."

…

"Hi, Tom."

She approaches him from behind with forced footsteps. They're the last two remaining at King's Cross – she feels it. "Are you going to be picked up soon?"

"I don't get _picked up_," he says disdainfully. "I'm perfectly capable of navigating England by myself, thank you. I'm waiting for another train."

She nods along, even though his speech seems slightly too well-oiled – too practiced – for her to believe in it. "I'm due for a train, too. I'm taking the Hogwarts Express back."

She imagines surprise underneath a collected exterior. "You're returning to Hogwarts?"

"Yes. I haven't got any other home to go to."

"You mean to say, you're allowed to stay at Hogwarts for the summer?" he persists.

"Yes."

For a brief moment , he's quiet in contemplation before he starts again, a little too forward. "Do you think – would Dippet mind it if I – "

A train whistle interrupts him, and Ginny walks back towards the train, clenching onto the metal bars and hoisting herself back onto the train carefully. "That's my cue."

"Right." He shuffles his feet on the ground.

"Are you coming?"

A moment of disbelief hangs in the air. "Do you think I could?"

"Hurry up, the train's going to leave any minute."

There's a loud clatter as Tom shoves his trunk back onto the express and clambers on board. He exudes an eager anxiety, and it makes her smile.

…

"Did you stay at Hogwarts last summer, too?"

The scene is familiar – one compartment, with only two people in it sitting across from each other by the window. She's staring outside again, but this time, he's focusing on her rather than pretending that she doesn't exist.

"For first year? Yes."

"Why did you take the train to Kings Cross in the first place, if you're just bound back?"

"The Hogwarts Express would be heading back to Hogwarts anyways for maintenance."

He's skeptical. "So you decided to ride for fun."

She shakes her head, correcting him. "For a façade of normalcy. I don't need pity." He doesn't respond, or question her statement – perhaps because he understands already. And in the silence, she wonders if it's an appropriate time to breach the topic he has avoided discussing with anyone so far. "What place are you trying to avoid?"

"Nowhere." The answer comes too quickly for it to be true.

She arches an eyebrow, and he knows that his answer is unbelievable. "You can tell me, you know," she says quietly.

He knows. She doesn't need to say anymore – even if he doesn't know her story, he knows that she's been weathered enough to understand him.

Cloth scrapes on cloth as he shifts backwards into his seat, and a couple joints are cracked. "An orphanage," he says finally.

She nods, quiet, before closing her eyes and resting her head on the back of the seat.

"What about you? What are you avoiding?"

A wan smile creeps onto her lips. "Death," she says, exhaling deeply before lifting her head again. "I really do mean it when I say I have nowhere to go. And I wouldn't survive on the streets alone."

She turns her gaze outside the window and thinks about universes.

…

The whole castle for themselves, for a summer – the whole castle, and he spends most of it in the library, and she spends most of it walking down endless corridors.

Sometimes they meet, on the rare occasions when he allows his stomach to distract him from his books and she simultaneously realizes that she needs a human presence to distract her from her thoughts. And then, they are seated together at the end of a long table, behind a long line of professors and research assistants who are staying at Hogwarts for their studies.

They're silent, usually. He has no reason to initiate conversation with her, and she can't bring herself to speak to him. Not on a day when she can no longer handle the draining memories of a hungry war.

It takes a visiting professor to initiate conversation between the two.

"You young ones look quick and bright," he says in a somewhat accented voice. "What year will you be heading into?"

"Third," answers Tom, and Ginny echoes his statement in a smaller voice.

"Ah, third year's a fun one," the professor says. "Mind you, I think they're all fun. It's why I'm a professor." He chortles good-naturedly, and Ginny smiles weakly to be polite. "Third year is elective year at Hogwarts, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Tom says.

"What exciting new classes will you two be picking up this year?"

Tom's response is prompt. "Ancient Runes and Divination."

"I'll be taking Ancient Runes as well," Ginny offers.

"Excellent courses, I – ah, yes, Matilda, I have it right here. I'm sorry children, but if you'll excuse me…"

Silence settles between the two as the professor engages his attention elsewhere, and Ginny fiddles with her fork over an empty plate.

He's quiet for a moment longer, perhaps glancing at her untouched tableware. "Do you plan on eating?"

"Oh. Yes," she says abashedly, and she's suddenly on guard. She doesn't want him to know yet. "Could you pass me the bread rolls, please?"

The light clinks, of silverware and tableware kissing, dance in the air as she tears off pieces of her roll, nibbling on them slowly.

"Did you mean it when you said you wanted to get to know me better, back during the Sorting?" Tom suddenly asks.

Caught off guard by his question, Ginny frowns and nods slowly. "Of course," she says, and she winces at the sound of apprehension in her voice.

"You've been rather distant for someone who's trying to get to know me," he observes bluntly.

She falters. _Because I can't bear to be around you. Whenever I feel your presence, I see red eyes pasted onto a snake-like face that steals the sun from my body. And I can't help but shy away._

"I'm sorry," she apologizes instead. "I'm not very good at socializing. And you didn't seem to keen on promising me, and I didn't want to force my company onto you."

It's a logical excuse. "Why were you so intent on getting my promise, then?"

"Because…" _Because I needed to make an impression on you last minute._ "You seem like someone I would like to be friends with one day, and there aren't many people I could be friends with. I guess I didn't want the houses we'd be sorted into to affect that possibility." He doesn't respond, and she shrugs. "My spirit's still too heavy to be able to foster friendship. With anyone." Should she continue?

She doesn't.

_I'm glad you've found people. But I don't like the people you've found._

"Where do you come from?" he finally asks.

She parts her lips. "I – "

_I don't want to say._

And suddenly, she realizes –

_I'm not proud of what I am right now._

_My current self is a colorless disappointment for a vibrant history._

She chokes as she stands up, stumbling as she makes her escape.

…

She doesn't fall asleep easily.

It's a combination of a reluctance to dream and a restless body not yet tired after a day of nothingness. In the tick-tock of her pulse she keeps track of time, staring blankly at ceilings and walls and canopy hangings.

She lives emptily.

_Tick, tock, tick_.

Every tick is another tally on the countdown – on the timer of death. It's the only clock she can tell time on.

_Tick, tock, tick._

She swings her legs to the side and tears through the drapes of her four-poster bed and down stone corridors in a barefooted race against a gasping heartbeat.

When she finally falls to her knees, she falls onto grass. She doesn't remember when she broke through rock walls and into fresh air, and she's too distracted to care.

The only thing she can do is water the grass with her eyes, and tears mix with dew.

…

His eyes are a broken shade of regret, with a tint of something that has contaminated all of their eyes – _sadness, exhaustion, hunger._ If she had to name the color, she would name it _haunted_.

Hers are no better, but hers are harder and glossier – the same texture as her voice when she speaks: bold and shaking. The same texture as the tremor in her heart.

"I'll do it. Under one condition."

He nods. He'd give her anything, and she knows it.

"I want one last battle. I want to go to one last battle before I face this new frontier."

…

"What are you standing around here for?"

"Waiting for you. Hi, Tom." She turns toward him and smiles slightly.

"You could've actually entered the library rather than stand outside of it," he suggests dryly.

Shrugging, she disregards his comment – she has her reasons – and proceeds, "I wanted to apologize for walking out yesterday. I had an epiphany."

Robes rustle. "Did you?"

Undaunted, she relentlessly continues. "You asked where I came from, and I realized – this person who I am, she's doing everything wrong. I keep clinging to something that's not here anymore, and I forget to focus on what I have now, and what I need to do now." She huffs a short laugh-like breath as she reconsiders her words. "I sound like a badly written story."

Shaking her head, she inhales deeply. Air for courage. "I'll tell you one day. But I need to figure out myself first. I need to remember how to live."

She smiles brokenly, and it's pathetic. "Would you like to have tea with me?"


	3. Chapter 3

Looking like this story's going to be a 9 chapter fic. This one's a slightly shorter chapter.

Reviews are greatly appreciated. There's nothing more rewarding than having someone take time to critique your work after spending the time and energy it takes to write it.

Please let me know if things ever get too confusing. I feel like everything's going to be pretty straightforward from here, but I'm no judge :3

Enjoy!

* * *

_Universes. Only one can exist, but new ones can be made._

_Time isn't strictly linear to something as great as a universe. There is some structure in it, however. It isn't utterly disorganized – there are packets, you could say. Clumps, blocks, organized pieces of nonlinear time. Time caches, they're called. You see, the universe is so vast that its _current_ extends over years of our time. What it considers a moment, we consider eternity. You can consider a cache as a measurement of time, like a second or a minute. Except while each cache seems to last years to us, it's only a heartbeat for the universe._

_When you travel back a few hours, you don't leave a time cache. At such short distances, the universe doesn't need to rewrite itself when you play with time. It already knows what's going to happen, and writes itself accordingly the first time. It sounds like cheap fortune telling, but that's from our perspective – from the universe's perspective, it's all happening at once. A few hours to the universe are _instantaneous_._

_But if you leave that time cache – if you travel so far back in time, that you enter the universe's past – you can force the universe to rewrite itself. You can force _change_._

_Potter said he once traveled a few hours in time. He said he was almost kissed by Dementors, if it weren't for his future time-traveling self casting a Patronus at that moment. His soul has time caches to thank._

_But fifty years might be enough to leave a time cache. Fifty years might be enough to make the difference between _now_ and_ before_ for the universe._

_You understand, I believe, what I mean for you to do – at the very least, an idea of it._

_The problem, Ginny, is that if fifty years _is_ enough – the world will never know what feat you have done to save it. You will be a hero that will never be recognized._

_There is also another cost. By altering the course of history, you will change everything about the present that we know. Each of us will have different life experiences, perhaps molding us into different people._

_Time is a tricky substance, and a universe is even more difficult to comprehend. It's a subject no one is certain on, let alone me. But from what I've read, I've come to understand – that by leaving this time cache, the universe will claim you. You will continue to live on in your new time frame, but Ginny Weasley will never be born. It's a measure the universe takes to prevent the possibility of an infinite loop – of constantly rewriting itself, and never progressing towards the future. It will only ever allow a person to exist _once_. It will not give you two lives._

_You would live the remainder of your life with a generation that you don't know. And worst of all – you will remember us and of this war, but we will not know you and we will live in ignorance._

_I won't force you to do this. I only dare to ask because our hope wanes thin._

_I dare to ask you, because we all know Lord Voldemort. But you are one of the few who know Tom Riddle, and we need you._

…

The forecast today is a hazy dark. It's the same weather as yesterday, and it will be the same weather tomorrow and the day after.

"You can't still demand this of her, after that curse – She never should have even gone to that final battle, you can't – " Her mum has been caked in hysteria lately, while she's taken to lying on floors and staring blankly at ceilings.

"Molly, I've spoken to her, and she says she wants to do this more than ever now – "

"_OF COURSE SHE'LL DO IT WHEN YOU'RE PRESSURING HER TO, EVEN WHEN – "_

"I'VE RUN OUT OF IDEAS, MOLLY! WOULD YOU CONDEMN THE ENTIRE WIZARDING WORLD TO DEATH? – "

She stares at black and grapples with her own mind.

…

"Hogsmeade," Ginny says to Tom, who's packing up his books in the adjacent seat as their Ancient Runes professor dismisses them. "Are you going?"

She isn't sure if she hears a snarl or not. "I haven't got a parent or guardian to sign a form, remember?" he says lowly, bending his head down towards her discreetly as he picks up his bag off the floor.

"Neither have I," she shrugs. "Do you want to go?"

She takes her time packing her things as students push past, done with their last class before Hogsmeade weekend. Walking to the door in her usual unhurried manner, she drops her voice and tells him, "Meet me by the stairs on the fourth floor when you're ready to leave."

…

Anguish is a draining color.

Sometimes, when she's too exhausted, too _tired_, she tries to paint her world something different. The color of innocence. The color of naivety. The color of hope.

But when she reaches for the brush, she realizes that she doesn't know what colors those are.

She's forgotten.

The color of anguish remains.

…

"How did you find this?"

Ginny doesn't turn around to look behind her as she feels her way forward in the tunnel, hands running against the wall. "While you lock yourself in the library, I wander corridors." But that's not the reason why. She learned of this passageway from Fred and George.

Feet catching on something on the ground, she stumbles slightly before righting herself. "You're in the library a lot," she observes, to fill up silence. Because when she's around him, she feels more comfortable when she distracts herself with words, rather than letting herself ponder red eyes and a high-pitched laugh. "You can't possibly be studying that whole time."

He doesn't answer for a couple moments. "I'm not."

She waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. Instead, her hand meets wooden panels, damp and tired, that give way when she pushes on them.

Her next footstep takes her to a cobblestone road.

Behind her, Tom emerges and closes the door behind them. "Is this Hogsmeade?"

She nods, and he strides forward to the beat of a quick tempo. "I suppose this is a back alleyway of some sort." Feet shift – he's noticed that she hasn't moved, and he's turned towards her now. "Are you coming?"

"I'd get lost."

"I've read about Hogsmeade, it's a small town. You won't get lost," he assures.

"_I_ would." She wants to walk down a road paved with spirit, swathed in sweet aromas wafting from open windows – but she can't. Would she even be able to walk down such a road without collapsing under the weight of desperate nostalgia? "You have friends to meet, and I would get lost by myself." Shaking her head slightly, she feels behind her for the flimsy wooden door. "Have fun, Tom."

She slips back inside and returns to Hogwarts alone.

She wanders corridors when they're empty for a reason.

Today, Hogsmeade will be bustling with too much life.

…

"We'll teach her to live a new life, Molly."

Her mum has collapsed. For once, the woman has no words to say.

"We'll do the best we can. It's all we can do."

…

"Five o'clock tonight," Tom says quietly, bending over as he packs his bags. "Meet me in Hogsmeade."

He disappears, and Ginny's left hugging her Ancient Runes text to herself.

She's not quite sure what just happened.

…

"Come in."

Beckoned forward, she trails her fingers along the polished wooden door until they reach a cool brass knob, turning it slowly. "Professor Dumbledore."

"Miss Clearmonte," comes a familiar voice in its usual cheer – a cheer that, lately, has sounded a bit more tired. "Welcome."

It's a slow procession from the door to his desk, taking hesitant footsteps as she hugs the book to her chest. "I – I have something for you, sir."

With some difficulty, she releases her tight grip on the book and holds it out for him. When its weight disappears, she manages, "It's a photo album." A heavy pause sinks in her chest. "I've never opened its covers. I…"

Before her stands brown hair and brown eyes.

"I think, one day, you'll recognize the faces inside. I hope you'll be able to recognize all of them, eventually."

In fevered nights, a stillborn cry sometimes echoes in the empty chamber of her mind: the nightmare of a premature death of a friend, by her hand. By the hand of the universe and its time caches.

She would try to overwhelm the cries with song, but the wails would not be drowned.

"I'll leave it to you to decide what to do with it, and the photos inside."

As she backs away towards the door, a voice stops her – "Miss Clearmonte."

Her hand hovers over the doorknob, but it doesn't touch it.

"You did very well these past seven years at Hogwarts. Congratulations on completing them. You were a pleasure to teach."

Her throat constricts. "Thank you, professor."

Fingers graze metal, and a knob is twisted.

"And Ginny – remember that I'll always be here, if at any time you find you need something. Or someone."

Sometimes, words and smiles are not enough to express the easing relief of gratitude.

…

Behind her, hinges creak twice, opening a symphony of a quiet conversation.

"You're here."

"Of course."

Scattered pebbles crunch as he steps on them, walking ahead. And naturally, she follows.

Stopping short of leaving the alleyway, Tom asks, "Have you ever had a Butterbeer?"

She has. "No," she says instead. "What is it?" Because she thinks she understands what he's trying to do – maybe. And the red eyes that burn bright in her mind fade to a natural brown for a moment, and she's touched.

"I'll show you."

She nods slowly, once. "Okay." And then, tentatively, she reaches out and her fingers brush against the cloth of his robe sleeves, catching the material between her index and middle finger as she follows it down to the hem. Maybe it's too forward of her – it probably is – but right now, she feels nestled in gratification's embrace, and she doesn't care about being forward.

His hand is warm, she realizes with some surprise when she laces her finger with his, and he's tense at the touch.

"I've never actually been here before," she says quietly. "I went only far enough to realize that I wasn't in Hogwarts anymore. I don't want to be lost."

He doesn't question her further and lets her hold his hand as he takes them deeper into the laughing town.

It's his thank-you. For summers at Hogwarts and weekends at Hogsmeade. For a rescue.

Inside her, Ginny feels early morning sunshine, and it stems from her left hand.

* * *

Leave a signed review and I'll do my best to reply to you :3


	4. Chapter 4

New chapter! Sorry it took longer to get out, but hey, still better than what I've been managing for Final Riddles... /cough/

Speaking of which, I'll be trying to update FR next before the next chapter of Colouring Hearts. (Key word - trying...)

Errm, so this chapter kind of has a slight diversion... Lemme know what you think! :3

Also, I've been having the worst time coming up with a summary for this fic. Any and all suggestions are welcome! :D

* * *

Because no, he can't ignore her, and this feeling inside of her – this feeling isn't worry. It isn't anxiety, and it is nothing close to the feeling of desperation and denial.

So she tries. "Hi, Tom – "

Her greeting drops.

Her smile chokes.

He's gone.

…

"Do you think – do you think we'd remember? Anything at all?"

She looks over and finds Hermione sitting upright against the bed, knees hugged to her chest. There's a tender fear behind steel eyes as she stares resolutely at the floor.

"Harry would have his parents," Hermione whispers. "Your brothers would all still be with us. But – but I can't help – I can't help but selfishly think about myself." She spits out her last couple words.

Ginny pads across the carpet and kneels beside the brunette, encasing the girl with her arms. "It's okay."

"I was a stuck-up know-it-all, you know. I was a – a – I was a _bitch_." Hermione tries to smile, but it comes out twisted and hurting. "The only reason Ron and Harry befriended me was – was because Quirrell had let loose a troll in the school, and they rescued me from it." Her voice begins to crescendo with creeping hysteria. "And if there had never been a Voldemort, so many things would have never happened – and that troll never would've – never would've – "

She breaks. Ginny hides her face in her friend's shoulder.

"And you," Hermione says at last, shifting to look at her. "It isn't fair for you. I don't want to forget you. I don't want to _lose_ you."

There's a gasping murmur in Ginny's heart that she has been doggedly ignoring since she read the letter, but now it sears when she sees the heartbreak that coats Hermione's eyes and lips.

Ginny presses her lips together until she can't take it anymore. "I'll miss you, Hermione."

How do you say good-bye?

She can see the words waiting to spill out of Hermione's mouth, but they both know that she can't reciprocate Ginny's words. Hermione swallows them back.

Two bodies cradle over each other, with each one staining the other with tears.

It isn't easy.

She doesn't know it yet, but after tonight, Ginny would only see her friend's face two more times. After that, brown hair and brown eyes would disappear into memory forever.

…

The tankard of Butterbeer is warm in her hands, and it's even warmer when it scorches a trail down her throat. And despite the approaching chill on the other side of the window pane, she is wrapped in a sated, warm blanket.

"I don't just study in the library, by the way," he says suddenly. "I've… I've been researching my name."

The syllables he lets fall drop weights into her stomach.

"I've been searching the name Riddle for over two years now," he says. "Just this week, I thought to search Marvolo."

"Marvolo," Ginny echoes. She knows the name.

"My middle name. Inherited from my grandfather." His chair creaks as he leans forward onto the table. In an urgent, excited whisper, he reveals, "I'm not a nameless Muggleborn orphan, Ginny. My mother was a Gaunt." His chair moans again, and the pressure beneath her elbows propped on the table shifts even more. "I'm a direct descendant of Slytherin."

"Merlin." Her breath catches. It's the reaction he wants, but not for the reasons he thinks.

Silence shivers. The air is muggy and dark, whispering slithers and hisses into her ears. Grime crawls from the damp stone behind her back into her hair.

_Good girl, Ginny. Now hush, and go to sleep. It'll all be over soon._

"Why – " Her voice is hoarse, and she tries again. "Why didn't you think to look up Marvolo sooner?"

A beat passes. "Marvolo is the name of my mother's father," he answers at last. "My mother died, in childbirth." His voice tightens as he says, "I don't see how she could have let herself die when she had magic to sustain her."

The heaviness in that final statement nearly overwhelms her. Magic has been his rescue, she realizes, and he's identified it as the cure for all his ills.

He thinks she could've saved herself with magic – save him from the ailment of an orphan epithet – and hates her for the fact that she didn't.

And maybe – maybe it isn't a fear of death that would condemn him to his Horcruxes in the future. Maybe it's spite against his mother, who didn't find her son worth living for as she gave her last breath in an underfunded orphanage.

"Magic isn't invincible," she says softly. "It doesn't trump nature. It's a part of nature. Things break, and not even magic can fix them. I don't think she _let_ herself die."

"She left me in a _Muggle_ orphanage," he says tensely. And it's no longer about magic – he's only thinking of his mother.

"When was the last time you ever heard of a Wizarding orphanage?" she says sharply, and a few moments pass before the quiet dissolves the firm lines on her face and assuages her tone. "You've heard the discrimination against Muggleborns and Squibs. The Wizarding world isn't kind."

He doesn't answer, and Ginny decides not to push it. "Who else have you told about your heritage?" Though he's the sort to wish to be acknowledged as great, she isn't sure if his parentage is among the things he'd wish to flaunt – especially after spending the last few years hiding it.

"You're the first I've told," comes his answer, and it sends the warmth not quite connected to the Butterbeer in her hands into her cheeks.

Silence settles as she ponders what this might mean.

"How does it feel," she muses with a smile toying at her lips, finally disturbing the quiet, "to be descended from Slytherin himself?"

"I don't know," he answers, trying to place his feelings into words. "Glorious, but in a way that makes sense."

When their tankards are drained, she holds out her hand and he takes it, lacing fingers as they leave Hogsmeade, as their custom has come to be.

…

"You can't take her away from me, not like this, not now, not after – not after – "

Speech hiccups and churns, disintegrating into desperation.

"Ch – Ch – _Charlie_ – I can't – I – "

One foot forward, then another. The floor is cold as she feels it with her bare feet, slowly rolling from the heel down and seaming itself along the outer edge of her foot. "It's okay," she says, but the words come out hollow and do nothing to comfort her mother. "I've been thinking, maybe it's a blessing. I've been blessed with a layer of armor, Mum."

"Ginny…" Chapped hands cup the curve of her face.

"I'm protected from Legilimency. And I'm immune to basilisks."

"Ginny…"

"It's okay, Mum."

She wishes her voice didn't sound like such a barren wasteland.

…

"How do you do it, by the way?" Riddle asks. She would've believed his nonchalant tone if it weren't peppered with a taste of envy. "I've never seen you take notes in class, enter the library, or open a textbook. And yet you still manage."

When you envision an inevitable situation, you sometimes plot out all the details, all the mannerisms of the scene. But then, it doesn't matter how well you've rehearsed the script or how strong your cast is. When the time comes, you're simply not ready to perform.

For Ginny, it's still too soon for his question, and she deflects it instinctively. "I manage, but that's it," she says. "Whereas you, you excel."

She can't tell if he appreciates the compliment. "You don't need to be modest. You do well," he insists.

She could lie, she thinks desperately. She doesn't have to tell. Her weakness could remain unexploited a little while longer, her own secret to lumber through life with.

But still, reverberating in the drum of her heart is a voice that chimes ominously: _It's time._

_Tick, tock, tick._

He'd one day figure it out, she knows, because she can't hide it forever. She's surprised her secret even lasted these past two and a half years.

And would it – would it maybe be better if she were the one to tell him, rather than let him uncover the truth himself?

It would present a gift of something like trust.

Trust. It leaves a foreign aftertaste on her tongue.

_Tick, tock, tick._

"I can't read," she says finally. "I only manage because I have remedial sessions with professors." She only manages because she's also learned this material once before, in a universe that no longer exists.

He doesn't speak for a moment, turning over what she has offered him. "I don't believe you," he says. "There's more."

Slowly, gravity tilts her chin down in a reluctant nod. "There's more," she agrees. "I could read once." She shifts in her seat, suddenly finding herself sore and uncomfortable. "I stare at the ground for a reason, you know."

Silence sinks as she turns her gaze up. There's no visible scarring, she knows. Her eyes are as brown as they ever were.

But there's still a story worth telling in the distracted film that coats them.

…

"How old are you, child?"

Wide, blank eyes turn toward the source of sound. "I don't know."

"What's your name?"

"Ginny Clearmonte." Her voice is dead.

Pages flip, and flip again. It's a dry sound, cackling at her misery.

"Armando, there's no Clearmonte listed," a voice mutters urgently. She isn't meant to hear it, but her ears are fine-tuned.

"She might be from outside of Hogwarts' jurisdiction," a voice mutters back doubtfully – her accent is too English for her to herald from France or Bulgaria – before adopting a gentler, nourished voice for her. "Where did you come from, and how did you end up at Hogwarts?"

"I don't know."

Tentatively, he tries again. "Do you have a family?"

She did. And all that's left of them sits in a shrunken frame sewn into her pocket. "I don't know."

A released sigh flattens the air. "Then what _do_ you know, Ginny?"

"My name," she answers.

"And how do you know your name?"

"I heard someone scream it."

The trodden air lifts again in tumultuous waves, rolling beneath their stomachs. "Who screamed your name? What did they look like?"

"I don't know. All I saw was red light."

A new voice breaks in. A familiar one. "Explain to me very clearly, Ginny. What do you remember? Tell me everything."

"I don't remember anything. Just red light, and a name. And – and I remember being afraid." She falls silent. "Am I safe here?"

"You're very safe here," comes the soothing response, but she feels a contradicting nervous tension stretched taut across the room. "You're at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a place for young wizards and witches such as yourself. We just finished the spring term not two days ago."

She knows this. They had specifically set the time dial to return to this date, when all the professors would still be present and none of the students would be.

A moment of silence passes as unspoken words are shared before he continues finally, "You're welcome to join the first year class in September." Papers shuffle. "You'll find here a list of things you need – "

"I can't read," she interrupts suddenly.

"Can't read?"

For the first time, her mask cracks a broken smile as she speaks her first truth:

"I'm blind."

…

"Blind," he echoes.

She nods. Her tankard has long since been empty, and she assumes his tankard sits in a similar state. Tentatively, she holds out her hand. "I don't want to be lost," she says simply.

He wordlessly slips his hand into hers and guides her back to Hogwarts.

It's not the first time they've held hands now, nor the second. It's their second trip to The Three Broomsticks, and the fourth time their fingers have met in embrace.

But it's the first time their hands feel like they fit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Colouring Hearts**

I lied last chapter. I still have no progress with Final Riddles. Have another CH chapter instead. :D

Thanks for all of your supportive reviews! I'd love to reply to all of them, but so many of you left your review unsigned so I don't have a way to reply to them D: /sadness.

Enjoy!

* * *

_Tick, tock, tick_.

"Hi Anthony. Do you know if Riddle's in the library?"

_Please._

"No, I didn't see him in there."

A knot of dread begins to unfurl in her stomach.

"All right. Thanks."

_Tick_.

"Sorry. See you, Ginny."

…

"Ginny," he greets.

She smiles when she turns toward him. "Hi, Tom." She pauses as her smile widens impishly. "My little cauldron cake," she finishes in a slight sing-song voice, drawing out the last 'k' as she imagines the scowl that would cross his features.

"That is to be never mentioned again," he says, his voice hard.

Ginny laughs. "I'm only teasing, the poor girl is probably more embarrassed about the situation than you are." Fingers find each other and interweave as they step out onto a cobblestone street. "Tell me, what does the world look like today?"

He doesn't answer for a while. "It looks irritated. A bronze sky is frowning," he says shortly.

For her part, she's learned to discern what part of his reply responds to her spoken question, and which part of his reply responds to the unspoken one – _and how are you today?_

…

The calm before the storm, the saying goes.

This calm lasts for two years before calamity petrifies a relationship you could naively call _friendship_.

…

"This is my favorite spot in all of Hogsmeade."

He shifts beside her, his hand tugging her arm downwards. Carefully, she follows suit, lowering herself to the ground where blades of grass tickle her legs. "Where are we?"

"On a hill," he answers simply before elaborating. "I wish you could see it. It overlooks all of Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts sits on the horizon."

She paints a picture in her mind: a tangerine sunset sky that illuminates the castle in gold dust – a sophisticated majesty embracing a laughing town.

"It sounds like peace," she says softly.

"It is."

"I know. I can feel it." And it's true. The air around radiates a blissful contentedness, bathing her in its tranquility.

A breeze giggles as it passes by. "I haven't shared this spot with anyone. Even though you can't see it, you're the only person I know who'd appreciate it."

Her heart forgets to breathe for a moment, twirling with something she can't quite identify as her lips lift into a smile. "Thank you for showing me, Tom. It's beautiful." And she wishes so strongly that she could see again, so that she might witness the scene that has captivated the boy's heart.

"You know," he muses, "all these little things – everyone else seems to take it for granted. But with you, they don't seem to lose its magic."

Tangerine sunsets cannot compare to the brilliance of her smile.

…

_Tock._

"Wait, Nott – do you know if Riddle's in the common room, or if he's in the dorm? Slughorn sent me to tell him something."

"What's the message?"

"Something about a project. Look, is he in there or not?"

Her chest hangs suspended. The metronome freezes. Then, finally –

"I haven't seen him, no."

_Tick, tock, tick._

A battle drum beats in her heart.

"All right, I guess I'll try the library then, with the OWLs coming up and all. Thanks."

She's already tried the library.

…

"Ginny."

"Bon-bon."

Silence skims over several seconds before she finally gives into a smile, but she doesn't relent to giving him an apology. "Another one, Tom? What's the tally now? One last year, and two this year – so far. Merlin knows how many hearts you'll break between now and the end of fifth year. I'm flattered that you made time for me between all your conquests."

"I'm regretting the time I made for you. I've half a mind to turn back now and return to Hogwarts," he retorts sharply.

She gives in, but her smile doesn't fade. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist."

"Clearly."

She locks her fingers with his. "I'll make it up to you. Are you still interested in learning a bit of nonverbal magic?"

…

She should be fury.

She should be the sort of despair with blood that seethes, with a heart that thrashes violently against the confines of humanity. If nothing else, _this_ should be the reminder of a pair of red eyes and a reptilian nose – a reminder of red hair, blank eyes, and a ghost of a smile – a reminder of Lupin and Tonks and Moody and Bill and Sirius and _God_, it hurts that she isn't.

She is despair, but of the variety that frosts her blood and silences her heartbeat. The despair that speaks not _How dare you_, but rather _How could you_. It's the utter brokenness of betrayal and the mutilating feeling of failure.

Her blood tastes like acrylic black ink, and when she swallows, she chokes on the words the ink forms in her throat –

_Dear Tom, no one's ever understood me like you. I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in. It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket…_

Her cheeks are wet.

…

Her cheeks are hot – and she knows they're tinged with the telltale red of embarrassment. She can practically _hear_ his smirk when he speaks, and it naturally does nothing to placate the ever brighter glow.

"I didn't realize Lucille was there," she defends herself furiously.

"I think Black is just your cover-up for a secret agenda against Miss Ailberg," he says nonchalantly.

"I feel _awful_," she declares, ignoring him. "I was so focused on Black's aura that I didn't notice there were other people in the way when I sent that hex."

"Aura?" Curiosity captured, he finally lets her off. "You can detect auras?"

"I – yeah," she says offhandedly, nodding. It takes her a few moments to orient herself after the abrupt change in conversation. "Only magical ones. And not very well."

His words are quick, as if his tongue cannot mimic his thoughts fast enough. "What's it like, to detect auras? What are auras like?"

Biting her lip, she searches for the words to describe a different dimension. "It's a quiet sense, vastly overpowered by vision. I didn't develop it until a little while after I lost my sight," she explains slowly. "It – it kind of hums different aromas. I don't know how else to say it. They always start out hazy, and they sharpen as you get to know the person better." She pauses. "Yours is spicy."

She hears him shift in the grass. "Is it possible to – " He breaks off, realizing that he's being too forward.

She smiles softly. "Is it possible to cultivate the ability to sense auras?" she fills in for him. "I'm not sure. I think it's a sense every witch and wizard has. It's just that the sense of sight is so strong, that it distracts us from the auras."

A blanket of silence falls over them, and she contemplates the wizard sitting beside her as she pulls her cloak tighter around her. And she realizes – that he is the only constant in her life. Even when her family is gone, even when her world has collapsed and her own existence consumed by shifting time, he's still here – the reason for her bruised smiles and, lately, the reason for her happy ones.

She isn't sure how she feels about this sudden insight.

"Tell me," he suddenly says. "What… do you miss most about being able to see?"

"I…" Her voice trails away. She's never asked herself such a question before. "Colors, maybe. Shades. Depth. Something beyond an endless abyss. No, I…"

The pads of his fingertips graze over her back of her hand, and it sends the hairs on her skin on end.

"All the moments I miss," she says finally. "Sometimes, I can hear a smile in your voice when you talk, and I wish I could _see_ it."

And suddenly, she's hyperaware that the hand that hovered above hers is moving, traveling up the course of her arm and leaving a trail of dancing nerves in its wake. A finger chilled by late December air lifts her chin, and she imagines two pairs of brown eyes meeting each other.

"I don't suppose I'll see you tomorrow."

She lifts her own hand and reaches out, gently cupping the curve of his face. His skin is smooth, and she traces a finger to follow the angled lines from his cheekbone to his jaw, learning the shape of his face.

"It'll be busy," he agrees. His voice is low and quiet, but even so, she feels the tender vibrations of his speech beneath her hand.

"I suppose I'd better wish it a day early, then." She smiles. "Happy Birthday, Tom."

…

Some whispers are never released into the air, a held breath in a locked heartbeat:

_I'm sorry._

_I'm sorry I failed, I'm sorry this still happened, I'm sorry that I didn't do enough._

_Maybe it's because of me. I opened it last time. And this time, I didn't do enough to stop it from opening again._

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do._

_I'm sorry that I'm not enough._

And so this is the feeling of despair.

This is the feeling of shame.

…

_Tick._

_Tock._

She doesn't know how long she's been seated here waiting, chilled by cold floor tiles and leaning against an unforgiving wall, but her back has begun to protest a while ago and her legs are beginning to cramp no matter what position she puts them in. But she doesn't notice.

She's too distracted by the words scarred into her heat.

_Dear Tom, I think I'm going mad…_

_Tick._

She feels it before she hears anything – a low rumble of the earth quaking, shifting and splitting to open a hole in the ground.

"Ginny?"

It's a familiar voice, coated with shock and dipped in hesitant fear. It's a voice she wishes right now that she doesn't recognize, as she pushes herself off the floor and stumbles slightly.

"What are you doing here?" With every passing moment, she can feel a budding anger begin to broil, as his syllables grow sharper with accusation and suspicion.

"This bathroom's been giving off more magical energy than usual lately," she lies. "I thought it might be connected – but I didn't think – I hoped – "

"You hoped _what_?" he snarls.

"_How could you do this, Tom?_" she demands, and she's horrified when she feels something hot scorch a trail down her cheek. "Carl – "

She sees a pair of wide eyes frozen onto a stone corpse, a life reduced to a paperweight statue.

He laughs. It's bitter and it chills her. "You sound shocked. Who did you think I was, Ginny? A fairy tale prince who could rescue you from the isolated tower the world has locked you in?"

"No," she says coldly. "How could you rescue me when you're locked in the very same tower?"

Acid brews in the air.

_Tick, tock, tick._

"Maybe I don't know who you are. I might be blind, but I'm not ignorant, you know," she says sharply. "I know I don't fit into the world you've built yourself at Hogwarts among your friends. After all, how could an orphaned Gryffindor with no future ever benefit you in society, next to a line of purebloods with a web of connections that weave across the entire Wizarding world? I know you have an image to keep in front of everyone, and _I don't fit in _– I get it. It's why you ignore me when we're at Hogwarts."

_Tick._

"And okay. I haven't said anything about it. But, Tom – tell me, how many facades do you go through? With me, with professors, with – with _everyone. _So please, explain it to me," she says, and her voice betrays her with a desperate waver as she asks her final question. "Who _are_ you?"

Her chest tightens into chords that play a painful melody – because any answer would be better than this, and _no_, he has to be _more_ than this, and _what_ does he mean when he says that –

"I am the Heir of Slytherin."

…

Because maybe, maybe fifty years wasn't enough.

Maybe she's still caught in the same time cache, and no matter what she does, it won't be enough –

Because the future's already been written.

* * *

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Next up: showdown.

Thanks for reading, and please drop a comment off with your thoughts. Nothing would be more rewarding!


	6. Chapter 6

It's been a while. College has been nomming my face off.

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed the previous chapter. Let's get some emotions rolling, shall we? :D

* * *

Today is the universe's final funeral.

Today, the world is painted the colour of mourning.

A bloodless massacre.

By turning the dial of time, she would destroy the world that birthed her. Her body stands alone, facing her soul and her heart.

By turning the dial of time, she would destroy them as well. She would be gone, and so would they.

How must it feel, she wonders, to await your death and watch its trigger? For your existence to be forgotten, leaving behind only a shadow of yourself that will never be the person you are now?

The metal disk in her hands hums a taunting tune when she runs a finger over the edges, tracing over the runes etched into it.

_Murrderrrerrrr._

They sense her fear.

"It isn't death, Ginny. It's giving life an opportunity."

She shakes her head.

There are many shades of brave, and today she finds their bravery blaring vibrantly against her own muted colour.

…

"I am the Heir of Slytherin."

_Dear Ginny, would you like to hear a bedtime story?_

_Once upon a time, there was a young princess with skin white as parchment, hair red as blood, and a soul fading to something as black as ink…_

Her breath hitches and it hurts too much to swallow. "That's it?" she says, fighting to keep her voice strong- but there's a telltale waver in it that says anything but. "That's all you are? A – a _tool_ to _purge_ the school of Muggleborns?"

"I am no _tool_." Each word is a frosted knife. "I do as I see fit – and I find these hallways overdue for cleansing."

"You do as you see fit," she echoes, and she hates how shattered she is – and it makes _no sense_ why it hurts so much. "So you _believe_ in this purity nonsense." She reaches out, but her hand only grasps air. "How could you believe in blood supremacy?"

"I have seen the world out there, Ginny," he says sharply. "The Muggle world is _poison_. I won't have it contaminate the Wizarding world as well. The Muggle world – it's a fucking _war zone. _That's all it is. One giant war zone. It's Muggles against Muggles against Muggles. It's sitting in a shack, waiting for a bomb to drop on your city and praying that it never happens. It's a life just waiting for death to happen and praying that you get to live an extra minute of agony."

The color of anguish gives way to peeling wallpaper and thin carpeting pasted onto an endless hallway, dimly lit behind flickering faces with lips shut tight. _I'm coming – you're not leaving me here to wait. I don't care. I'm seventeen! Ron went into battle when he was my age! You can't leave me here, waiting for death to happen. I want to fight – and you need all the help you can get on the battlefield – _

"You haven't seen the newspaper headlines," he continues. "It's more than Grindelwald. It's a _world war_, Ginny. It's not just Europe – it's _the entire fucking globe_. And do you know what triggered this war? Another war. A war they used to call The Great War – the war to end all wars. A war that left the economy dead, stuck in a recession so starving they gave it a name. The Great Depression, that's what it's called. It's a depression that stretches across oceans and continents. And the only thing that conquered it was more war. This current war – that's what ended the depression. The Muggle world is an unending cycle between barbaric misery and civilized misery. These are the things that Muggles define as _great_."

She didn't know about this Muggle history – and it colors the corners of her heart with a shade of uncertainty. "The Muggle world's going through a difficult time. Wizarding history also has – "

"A _world war_. Wizarding history has never had a world war," he corrects coldly. "I shouldn't even need to discuss the barbaric nature of their holocausts."

"You don't have to hate individual Muggles just because their leaders are mental," she tries desperately.

"Individual Muggles?" His voice is clenched. "They're no better. I grew up with Muggles, Ginny. My beloved _father_ is a Muggle. They're selfish. I've seen it firsthand. They abandon everything for themselves. And _Mudbloods_ – they claim _our_ birthright as theirs, bringing with them their Muggle flaws and basking in the luxuries purebloods have built and fought for over the centuries."

He's wrong. He's wrong, he's wrong, he's wrong, and she won't listen to him.

"No, Tom," she begs. "Muggles are no worse than purebloods. Can you truthfully say that all purebloods are selfless? You can't think of a single pureblood who's selfish?"

_Tock._

"There are selfish Muggles," she continues, trembling. "And – and just as there are selfless purebloods, there are selfless Muggles. And all that you said – everything, everything about – about _greed_ and _selfishness_ – that's _human_. It's _human,_ and it's not something that's _Muggle_ or – or _wizard_. The only difference between the two is _magic_."

"My father – "

"_Your father_ left you because he wanted nothing to do with magic. Think, Tom. How many pureblooded fathers have abandoned their Squib children and – just – _blasted_ their names off the family tree because they wanted nothing to do with non-magic?" She advances a step towards him, forcing herself to calm her heated voice. "And on the topic of your father – if anything, he made you a more powerful wizard than the Gaunts could be, _because_ he was a Muggle."

He sneers as he moves closer. "My heritage is _tainted_ by that Muggle."

"The Gaunts were both grotesque and insane. His genetics saved you from such a fate," she whispers back harshly, taking another step towards him. "Why are you so determined to hate?"

He doesn't answer her question, and she feels their auras graze and shift against each other, hissing and cackling. "What do you know of the Gaunts?" he demands instead.

"That they had about as much money as your orphanage has," she says, and her tone isn't kind. "They were a disgrace to the great wizards and witches they were descended from."

"And how would you know this?" he hisses into her ear, tickling her skin.

He has always been a good liar, but she is better. "You were so excited to discover your heritage, and I was excited with you. I'm not your _enemy_, Tom. I was happy for you, and I was curious, and so I did some research."

His overpowering presence disappears as he turns away, shoes sliding against the floor. "How? You can't read."

"There are ways to learn outside of a book, Tom." In the silence that sizzles and settles, the energy in the air calms and sinks into the pit of her stomach. She sighs. "This whole thing about blood purity – do you know what you're doing with the b – " She cuts herself off short. She's not supposed to know what monster lurks in the pipes. "With the _beast_, attacking Muggleborns left and right? _You're declaring war,_ Tom. You're declaring war on Muggleborns. Wizards against wizards against wizards. You – " She fights to stay in control of her voice as a tremor in her throat threatens to dislodge her composure. "You say you won't have Muggles and their wars infest their way into the Wizarding world – but Tom, if you declare war on Muggleborns – you'll be the carrier of this disease. _You_. And you can't let that happen."

_Tick, tock, tick._

"Tom, please don't do this."

Her plea hangs in the air, a wisp of a cloud that evaporates completely with his next words.

"You don't understand," he snaps. "I want this. I _need _this."

She takes a hesitant footstep forward, and a single broken word is released into the air. "Why?"

"It's more than just clearing corridors of unclean blood," he says. "That's only one part of it. The other part – I – it's being in control of something, for once in my life. Doing something that matters, something that'll be _remembered_. But it's more than that. It's – it's _power_."

The sink is dripping. Why hadn't she noticed it before?

_Drip, drip, drip._

And just like the rumble of a train, she hears a melody spelled out by water droplets, drawn out at an agonizingly slow lento tempo.

_Murr…_

_derr…_

_errr…_

"It's _power_, Ginny. As the Heir of Slytherin, I'm _not_ Tom Riddle – an _orphan _with a generic name from an unremarkable street with a groggy, ordinary future." His voice turns hard. "I'm – "

" – Tom Riddle," Ginny finishes resolutely. "You're Tom Riddle. You're somebody the Wizarding world has never seen before, somebody remarkable, who's at the top of his class. Tom Riddle is far from generic." She shakes her head. "There has never been a Riddle in the Wizarding world before – not until you. And you can define that name. You can set your standards and decide what expectations the world will hold over you. You are your own person.

"And yes," she continues fervently, "you're an orphan from an unremarkable street – but there's nothing unremarkable about _you_, future _or_ past. You had a difficult childhood, but if you ask me, that's where you developed your fighting spirit. It taught you to appreciate all these things, all your tangerine sunsets, that everyone takes for granted – and that skill's something beautiful I hope you'll never forget."

She doesn't realize until she's out of breath from talking that she believes in what she just said.

"You don't need to prove yourself as the Heir of Slytherin. You've already proven yourself as Tom," she finishes softly. "And don't let anyone brainwash you into thinking a Muggle heritage is anything less than a Wizarding heritage, because you've already proven them wrong."

_Drip, drip._

_Tick, tock._

"I don't – " Her throat is suddenly dry, and syllables scratch her throat as she forces them out. "This – power – that you crave. Be careful about it. Power can ruin a person, and – and there's so much in you that's beautiful – and I don't want to see it destroyed."

_Tick_.

The silence reverberates. "Tom," she implores.

"I've always hated that name," he says quietly, and she's relieved to find that the anger has dissipated from his voice. "But when you say it – you say it like there's no other Tom in the world. You say it like a prayer that only I can answer."

She doesn't move, afraid that a breath too loud would break the fragile atmosphere, as he steps forward and takes her hand.

Both their hands are cold.

"You know," he muses, "no one's ever understood me like you."

She does her best not to wince at his words –

_Dear Tom…_

- words that were once her own. How does he know? Or is it merely coincidence that he should utter these exact words – that maybe, they actually are two souls, estranged from all others, the only ones in the world who can understand each other?

A shared existence.

Two souls, a bit of each poured into the other.

"But I can't let this go."

She squeezes his hand, her hair tickling her shoulders as she shakes it from side to side. "If you don't close the Chamber, a war _will_ one day break out. And it'll start right here, in Hogwarts." Her smile is sad and tastes bitter with nostalgia. "If you don't close the Chamber, they'll close down Hogwarts."

She thinks he understands.

"And me," she says, forcing the words out. "I – have – _unhappy_ memories. And the Chamber reminds me… I can't handle it, Tom. If you must keep it open – I want to be your next victim. I couldn't bear it otherwise."

Fingers stained crimson with the juice of flesh.

_And her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever…_

"I'll close it," he says finally.

She nods, slowly.

_Tick_

_tock_

_tick_

_tock._

And suddenly, teardrops begin to play to the metronomic beat of the dripping sink as she shakes her head. Something flutters around her weakened knees, and her broken heart breathes air again, and for Merlin's sake, she's probably horrifying him with this emotional display but she can't _help_ it, because her whole body has suddenly been drained of all its strength and it's all she can do not to fall to the ground, and, and – and she doesn't know what to say, what to do, because sometimes words aren't _enough_.

She untangles her fingers from their handhold and moves forward, snaking her arms around his torso and hiding her face in his chest. The cotton of his shirt warms her, even though he's held stiff beneath the layer of fabric that smells cool and fresh like early morning dew, carrying only a trace of the spiciness that she's learned to recognize as his magical aura.

Her voice comes out muffled.

"Thank you."

_Thank you._

Such paltry words they are.

…

"It isn't death, Ginny. It's giving life an opportunity."

The disk that rests in her palm carries the weight of a fully loaded gun.

"I don't believe in reincarnation," she murmurs.

Her grip tightens on the dial.

"It's not reincarnation. It's a second chance."

She falters, then nods.

She can believe in a second chance.

.

.

.

* * *

Critiques are loved.

I'm sick, so make me feel better by dropping a review? (Why yes I'm that shameless.) As usual, I'll do my best to respond to signed reviews.


	7. Chapter 7

__Thank you all kindly for your marvelous reviews. I come with the news of NOW BEING HEALTHY RAWWRR.

Enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

_Seven._

One drop for Harry, she thinks.

…

Some nights, she doesn't drown in magma, burned and boiled and crushed.

Some nights, her blood runs frosted and thick, an avalanche of snow trying to pulse through her veins.

The air is rusted.

A figure clad in black robes, with dark locks parted to the side, dark eyes coloured with disdain.

Soliloquies that begin with "Dear Tom."

Dark memories that linger before her even after she opens her eyes to a curtain of grief.

Dark memories that now hang on the edges of her smiles when she talks to a boy who she understands like nobody else.

…

_Six._

One for the locket.

…

The summer is sweet and hot, cradled in the arms of sunshine as a breeze wafts over the familiar aroma of a more autumnal spice. To her right, the still lake breathes its quiet laughter every so often as its inhabitants skim its surface.

"I – you never said anything," he says suddenly, "about me not recognizing you at Hogwarts."

"It's not a big deal." She shrugs. "I understand why you do it. I don't approve of your friends, and they don't approve of me. But – " She starts before breaking off. Is it too much to demand him to choose one or the other? And what if he chooses to let her go? She's the one who stands against everything he believes in.

"But you think I shouldn't segregate my life like this," he finishes her thought.

Slowly, she dips her head down once in a nod. "No," she agrees quietly.

He doesn't answer.

She's only slightly disappointed, because she didn't really expect him to respond.

"Dippet says our OWL scores will be mailed out tomorrow," she says softly, letting the topic go.

"I know," he says, pausing before observing, "You sound worried."

She _is_ worried. There are two years left until graduation – two years, and then the future. And it's not enough _time_.

It took her two years to even acquaint herself with him – two years, in which they shared perhaps five conversations. And then, three years to build some sort of taboo relationship that she still doesn't quite understand.

She has two years to convince him to become something other than Lord Voldemort, before they part ways forever.

She has two years to save Mum and Dad and Bill and Charlie and Percy and Fred and George and Ron.

Two years to save Harry, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Tonks, Lupin, Kingsley, Sirius, Moody, Fleur –

Two years to save streets of unnamed faces, each with their own sorrows and with their own dandelion wishes, and every day she wakes up thinking _I can't fucking do this, it's too much, I can't, I have to, I can't –_

"Maybe," she says.

Two years, starting now. Starting with this nebulous relationship they share.

After the Chamber, enough emotions were released for him to feel more connected to her – to spend more time with her.

Enough emotions were released for her to build a blockade between them – a reminder of the high-pitched laughter that would echo in the threads of many a nightmare.

She feels him shift beside her. "You'll do fine," he assures, and there's something honest and awkward about the way he says it that lifts the corners of her lips a little. It's so different from the charming air she knows he assumes with other people, speaking velvet words that melt too quickly for her.

"That's not what I'm worried about." Biting her lip, she searches for words. "It's all moving so quickly. Last summer, it was your prefect badge – this summer, it's OWLs – next summer, you'll get your Head Boy badge…" Her voice trails. "And then what?"

And then it's goodbye Hogwarts.

She thinks about making him promise as she did when they were first years, waiting to be Sorted – promise that, no matter which career path they're sorted into, that he won't hate her. That he'll still be there.

She doesn't say anything.

…

There's a dream she's had lately – a new one.

It takes place in a ghost bathroom.

There's a broken sink, somewhere in here. Crawling along the side of a tap is a broken vein wrapped around a stitched heart.

Someone serenades it a song sung with a forked tongue.

And the seams of the heart tear and twist, screaming silently as something red leaks from the faucet.

_Drip_

_drip_

_drip_

poorly healed wounds reopened.

…

_Five._

One for the cup.

…

He breaks the enduring silence.

"You really think I'll be Head Boy?"

She elbows him and raises her eyebrows. "I said it once already. Stop fishing for compliments." She can hear his smile. "As if you didn't already know."

He hums a low note, vibrating gently in the air. "I suppose," he admits with a note of pride that he hasn't managed to completely quell.

"But," she adds, considering a timid Ravenclaw with an honest heart but a faltering lip, "Bert Burring makes an excellent candidate as well."

"Yes," he agrees, mimicking her deadpan, "his stutter's rather authoritative, isn't it? I'll have to watch for him."

She nods along, but when the silence settles, she realizes that she's not ready to give up the banter yet. She doesn't want to think of gravity. She needs a distraction.

"Well, now that that's all settled," she says, releasing her knees and hoisting herself from the ground. "Would you like to celebrate your Head Boy badge with a cup of tea and some pumpkin pastries?"

He lets out a huff of a breath, but she's not sure if it's amused or derisive. "It's unlucky to celebrate a victory before it's secured," he says.

"Don't be so superstitious," she chides. "You sound like a grandmother."

"A grandmother," he echoes dryly. His voice crescendos slightly as he speaks, and, judging by the accompanying rustle, he's just stood up as well.

She nods grimly. "Of the hobbling, knitting variety."

"Hey," he says curtly. "We're celebrating _my_ badge here. There'll be no teasing the wizard of honor."

On the trek back to the school, he takes her hand. He doesn't let go even after they step over the threshold of the castle's grand doors, shoes now clacking against stone. It doesn't really matter that she knows her way around Hogwarts enough that she could manage without him guiding her, not really. Instead, it's become something of a habit.

But still, lately the space between their palms has felt hollow and infinite to her, and it chortles iced needles across the folds of her hands.

…

_Four_.

Another for the diadem.

…

One footstep. Another follows. Someone's taken a step forward. She feels the vibration beneath her own feet.

"We prepared this for you." A voice ghosts through her. "A good-bye present. We started putting it together the moment you said you were going to accept the mission."

A book is shifted into her hands.

"It's – it's a photo album." The voice cracks, and Ginny looks down towards the gift she'll never be able to appreciate.

She sees nothing.

It feels heavy.

…

The library in itself is a labyrinth that she never walked, never memorized. So many books she can't read – so many chairs left out at haphazard angles to trip on, so many winding shelves that barricade the room. Cluttered. For her, it's better just to stay away.

But today, she ventures in, following her right hand as it runs along the wall, pacing the circumference of the room.

She misses the smell of dusty knowledge. It reminds her of togetherness.

She isn't sure how deep she's ventured into the maze when he calls out to her.

"Ginny?"

Distracted by the musky aroma of golden parchment, she didn't notice his signature spice. Turning towards the source of his voice, she smiles. "Hi."

"What are you doing here? I've never seen you in here before."

The floor hums as his chair scrapes backwards and he takes footsteps towards her. "I missed the smell of books," she answers honestly.

Capturing her wrist, he guides her slowly to his table. "Come on."

"What have you been reading?" she asks as she feels the seat beneath her before lowering herself down to it.

"Just some research," he says vaguely. The table trembles to a thud as he shifts his books around.

As she pulls her arms in closer to her, her hand brushes a book and accidentally knocks it off the desk and into her lap. "Sorry – "

She cuts off short. Her hands know this book.

He takes the thin leather-bound book from her. "Thanks."

And though he's taken it back, she still feels a phantom copy clutched between her fingers.

She _knows_ that book. She had clung to it for a year, nestling it in her pocket and brushing it with her fingertips whenever she felt uncertain.

_Please, for the love of Merlin, don't let it be involved with his research._ Please_ let his research be anything but. I don't – I can't – but Myrtle – _

She forces a suffocating cloud of quiet over a hammering heartbeat. "That book was rather light," she observes, and it's entirely too difficult to maintain this façade of nonchalance. "What subject matter is it on?"

"What?" he mutters distractedly before clarifying, "Oh, that's not a book. It's a journal I've been taking notes in."

She wants to believe that that's all there is to it.

But that would be naïve, wouldn't it?

…

_Three_.

A drop for the ring.

…

How do you count the notes of silence?

"I'm home."

She knows that voice. She's never heard it laden with so many chords before – his voice echoes with a certain haunted hollowness, tinged with despair, regret, guilt, horror, desperation…. A little bit of everything she's felt lately, amplified and compressed into two words.

_I'm home._

"Ginny – "

Suddenly, arms are wrapped around her, tugging her close, and her hair is getting wet, and the fabric of his robes beneath her cheeks are wet as well – is she crying, too? – as her own arms wind its way around his torso, squeezing tight –

"I'm so sorry, Ginny, I didn't – I couldn't – can you – I – "

"Charlie," she whispers. His stuttered words immediately halt as he clings to the silence, waiting for her words. "Thank god you're home."

…

_Two_.

One for the snake.

…

Her ears instinctively pick up his name, a short note held against an orchestrated cacophony of conversation.

"Oh, Tom." A giggle. "You're so clever. I don't know how you do it."

His voice is velvet. "With great difficulty," he promises.

Another giggle. "Stop being so modest, Tom. You're fantastic. For me, sometimes it seems no amount of studying can fix my stupidity."

She sees spilled ink on fingertips, a spreading black cobweb coloring the crevices of her fingers.

_Dear Tom, I just don't understand! Sometimes I think that I'm too stupid to be at Hogwarts…_

"Don't discourage yourself like that," he reprimands lightly. "I know you can do it. You just have to simplify the spell, break it down."

…_Don't discourage yourself. I have faith in you. The spell's quite simple, really…._

Words tattooed into the flesh of her heart - words that _this_ Tom Riddle never wrote, words that she hoped he would never come to write.

Still, she can't help but hear _that _Tom Riddle in every word he speaks, and she can't help but hear _that_ Ginny Weasley in the girls he speaks to.

And she can't stand it.

The bell rings.

She gathers her books slowly, waiting for the classroom to empty before she navigates her way through the desks to the door.

And then – unexpectedly – she catches the strands of an aura she's become too well acquainted with.

"Ginny," he says in parting as he passes by her desk.

But _this_ Tom Riddle really isn't _that_ Tom Riddle, is he?

"Tom," she says in kind, and she forgets about robes made of chicken feathers.

She smiles instead – truly, as pure as a bird's song – because it's the first time he's acknowledged her in public.

Dark memories flit away.

…

There's a countdown.

It starts from seven.

Sometimes, she sings the numbers as they trickle down, slipping from their pedestal – a sort of hum that trails, muttered under her breath to distract her from her plague.

_Do_

She's not sure when she first began counting, but she thinks it has to do with her mother.

_rei_

"Ginny," Mum used to say when she was young, "I had to count down from seven to finally get my little girl."

She thinks that's when she fell in love with the number, even if her mum only said that phrase to appease her whenever her brothers left her out of one of their games.

_mi_

It was the number that saved her sanity her first year at Hogwarts – a number that distracted her from murderous lips.

_fa_

Mrs. Norris. Colin. Justin. Nearly Headless Nick. Hermione. Penelope.

And herself, as number seven.

_so_

Today, she counts to seven by years.

_la_

Seven years with Tom Riddle.

_ti_

Only a single note separates her from the next octave.

…

And _one_ for that goddamn bloody diary.

Seven drops of De-aging Potion.

She swallows.

A ten-year-old girl stands, with a pair of haunted eyes that no ten-year-old should ever have to wear.

.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

Countdown.

Three chapters left.

Reviews are loved.

Until next time.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks for your reviews! I loved them, I love you, and I hope you love this chapter. Cheers!

* * *

And – and _shit_, this wasn't supposed to happen – how _could_ she? – she never thought that – bloody _hell_ – this isn't _right_ – it's so, so wrong, and it sickens her, and what would they say if they knew that –

She shoves the handkerchief away deep into her pocket and races down stone corridors, trying to escape the shackles of her mind – because the perfumes of new broomsticks and her mum's raspberry tarts can't mask the scent of that goddamn spiciness of a boy she doesn't understand.

…

The tome beneath her fingers exudes something decidedly acidic, in a manner that clenches her heart.

"This is dark magic, Tom," she says sharply. "You're studying dark magic."

"Yes," he says, and he's all too indifferent about the subject for her taste.

"No," she corrects, her jaw tight.

The air is brittle, crumbling in her mouth with ash.

"Yes," he insists.

Words refuse to shape in her throat. "You – this is just about you needing power, isn't it?" When he doesn't immediately deny her statement, she purses her lips. "I knew it."

"There's so much potential in magic that hasn't been exploited yet," he defends. "So much we more we can accomplish – but we're too _afraid_, too _weak_ to test the boundaries of our capabilities. Well, I can do more. I can do more than the Hogwarts curriculum, and who are you to hold me back?" His tone's become accusatory, and he's already starting to go mad with power, already starting to become _that_ Tom Riddle –

"You think I'm just your typical naïve Gryffindor who brainlessly spouts out society's morals," she says. And there's that goddamn ache again thudding in her frostbitten heart, but she _won't _break down again, she won't _let _him see her hurt, and she suffocates it with something hot that scorches her throat as anger slams its way out – "You've forgotten that I'm _not_ your typical Gryffindor. I'm not naïve. Who am I to hold you back from your potential, you ask? Well, who are _you_ to declare the wonders of dark magic to a girl who has lost _everything_ to it?" She's never hinted so much about her past before this moment, and it frightens her how close they're encroaching upon the subject – but she can't seem to restrain herself as the words she couldn't find earlier suddenly tumble forward. "You've never suffered beneath a wand before, have you?"

He's still obstinate, disregarding what she says – and she's both slightly relieved and slightly hurt that he's totally ignored her mention of her history. "Magic is simply a tool. There is no _light_ or _dark_ magic, Ginny – it all depends on the magic _user_. It can be – "

"No dark magic?" she repeats disbelievingly. "Pray tell, how is a spell that _strips a person of free will_ anything _but_ dark?"

"It depends on the situation," he explains irritably, frustrated perhaps by the lack of her understanding. "There's no such thing as _good_ or _evil_, it's all just perspective and situations. If you had to Imperius someone to save a thousand – "

" – So it's for the greater good, now, is it?" she interrupts. "You know, you're starting to sound a lot like Grindel – "

" – You're not listening," he snaps. "Magic – "

"You _stop_," she says sharply, slamming the tome into his chest. "You _stop_ trying to – to give dark magic an _excuse_. Because you don't know what you're talking about. If you're looking for power, congratulations. You've found it. Dark magic is powerful. But it ruins everybody involved."

"Everything's always so – so _concrete_ for you, isn't it?" he sneers. "So _absolute_. For you, of course, dark magic is always _evil_, and light magic is always _good_. There can be no exceptions, can there? Christ, you're such a fucking _idealist_. Everything's black and white for you, isn't it? You probably also think that – that love conquers all, and that there's good to be found in everyone's heart."

The mocking tone he's taken in the last couple lines of his speech winds her as she staggers backwards, the floor's anger pulsing from her heels and up to her legs with each thud – because, because _yes_, she believes in fairy tales, and his words claw at her very soul.

Because he's just described the philosophy that sent her here, hasn't he? The philosophy that left her homeless?

And he _scorns_ it.

"Is there good," she asks, and she _hates_ the waver in her voice that betrays her, "in your heart?"

Her own heart bleeds.

"There is no good or evil, Ginny."

Her lips automatically finish the mantra for him – "There is only power, and those too weak to seek it?" she questions in a hollow whisper before hissing, "You _bastard_."

She turns around and pries open the rusted wooden door, leaving behind both Hogsmeade and a boy who doesn't understand her.

…

Sometimes she wakes up gasping, tears hiding along the edges of wide eyes in a line of fire – tears that never fall.

Letters find each other, hastily strewn together and forced from her lips.

_No – please – how could – I thought – but – _

Red light comes too late.

She's already seen.

The last thing she'll ever see before the red, stamped into the black that follows.

Dark tainted eyes.

…

It's Thursday, and she's standing in a backstreet of Hogsmeade.

Alone.

But she didn't really expect him to show up for their usual meeting, did she? Not after last week.

Such knowledge does nothing to drain the molten lead that drips from her chest to her stomach.

…

Because they both dropped Ancient Runes after fifth year, she no longer sits beside him in any of their shared classes.

So she writes with her Self-Inking Quill – a single line of uneven script, listing no apologies:

_I should tell you something._

She hesitates, then adds:

_I missed you last Thursday._

Wings beat a gentle breeze across her lap before her message disappears from her fingers.

…

Different.

Is there a better word to describe the two of them?

But even so, they clash melodiously. There is nothing cacophonous about their joined song, though the chords are still jarring.

They are, she supposes, complements.

Because even though his presence makes her heart clench in – in _something_ – in disgust, in confusion, in fear, in reluctance, in dread –

She's still irrevocably shackled to him.

…

Footsteps stop behind her.

"Hi, Tom." She ignores their usual custom – _What does the world look like today?_ – and asks something a little more direct. "How have you been?"

And for his part, he ignores her question altogether and states, "You said you had something to say."

"I did," she agrees. "And I do."

He waits for her to continue, and she sighs, trying to unclog the apprehension in her lungs. "It's a story," she says, "of a girl who was once branded with dark magic."

She takes his hand, but she resolutely faces forward, walking towards the black. "And how she never fully recovered."

…

Once upon a time, there was a girl with skin white as parchment, hair red as blood, and a soul fading to something as black as ink.

She was suspended at this moment in a blurry awareness between the gates of life and death, trying to remember something or the other – but only one thing plagued her consciousness, and it was a voice, telling her a tale.

…_would you like to hear a story?_

_Once upon a time, there was a girl with skin white as parchment, hair red as blood, and a soul fading to something as black as ink…_

Something itched in her throat – because those recited words weren't quite right, were they? That wasn't where the story began. Because once upon a time, her skin had colour, and her hair wasn't so matted with grime, and her soul wasn't quite so tainted.

But those were simply stray ideas – thoughts she couldn't hold onto as she tried to claw through the dark syrup that enveloped her, and it took altogether too much effort just to lift her head to _breathe_.

And then, even the voice faded away, and she had nothing but silence, nothing but black, nothing but tortured gasps and utter isolation –

– utter _betrayal_ –

And with that flood of hurt, with the agony of her heart being turned inside out, she remembered something – a book, bounded by hard leather.

Promises.

Promises of hope that left her stranded in bitter molasses.

…

"I was promised friendship," is the first thing she says. It comes out automatically – it's what everyone understands to be the reason why her fingerprints coated the diary's pages.

But it doesn't account for the reluctant dread that sits in her locked chest, waiting.

Her lips part, and suddenly, she's sharing something she's never shared before.

"All my life – " Her voice tastes like rusted metal, and she's overwhelmed by guilt, by shame, by self-loathing, because Merlin, her younger self was so – so _petty_, so concerned over the trivialities of life – and it's utterly _despicable_ remembering what she used to be like. "All my life, I had been left out. I had been treated differently. I – "

She breaks off. "I'm not saying this right." Inhaling deeply, she tries again. "I was the youngest of seven. I had six older brothers."

There's a short intake of breath, a quiet one – and it triggers a similar hiss inside her heart. "You never told me," he says accusingly. "You never said anything about having a family."

"I never told anyone," she says, "because I don't have one anymore. I _had_ six older brothers, Tom. And growing up – I never appreciated – I – " Her tongue trips over letters. "I was their baby sister, I was to be _coddled_, and they never let me join them whenever they went off having fun together, without me, and it hurt. And this book – " She has to force the words from her lips, and they leave a sour aftertaste. "It promised me strength to prove myself to them, to the world, that I was capable. It promised me the respect I craved. It promised me the power to obtain it, and it was so seductive of an offer, and I – and I fell for it." A humorless laughter chills the air – it's her own laughter, she realizes. "As it turns out, I wasn't strong enough, and I was consumed."

The irony that she's sharing this filthy secret of hers with _him_, of all people, isn't lost on her.

"The book – it persuaded me to do small things at first, and then it pushed a little further, and then further, until I was so invested in this book that my life had spiraled out of my control and into its control. It possessed me – and when I regained consciousness, I'd find myself lost with dried crimson splattered across my robes and I'd hear of some disaster that had just occurred – some attempted murder."

The slow stretching of limbs, a flicker of the lids, a twitch of the fingers as she slowly regained control.

She would wake up with a number on her lips.

It started with _one_

"And then – " she continues, voice rising, "when I realized that – that the criminal was _me_, I tried to break free, but it was too late – "

A drum beats in her ears.

_two_

" – it had already taken me hostage, like a parasite – infecting my mind, my body – "

She feels something wet – like the robe hems that were soaked in water, dragged through a flooded corridor on the second floor.

_three_

" – and it _kept_ me, kept demanding me to murder, and I – I tried, but I couldn't resist – "

Muddy footprints left on stone

_four_

" – I couldn't do _anything_, I couldn't eat, sleep – "

and fingers

_five_

" – until one day – one day, it had me craft my own grave marker, my own death sentence – "

reaching

_six_

" – and it tried to kill me – "

dipping into paint

_seven._

Bitterness taints her tongue as her lips begin to quote.

" – and it tried to take the last, tattered remains of my soul for itself."

_To lie in the Chamber forever,_

_leaving behind only a scarlet good-bye._

…

A face in a mirror.

She remembers spending hours staring into a face that looked like hers, but yet not – because was her skin always so ashen, her eyes always so dark? Her mouth had always been solid, but the corpse in the mirror had thin, trembling lips.

It was a face she couldn't bear to see, but her eyes clung to the sight even as her stomach churned in agony.

She distracted herself by counting the blemishes on the girl's skin, trying to distinguish splattered blood from freckles, and wondering if there was a difference at all.

_One, two, three…_

…

Hush.

"And it would've succeeded, if someone else hadn't destroyed the book at the last minute," she finishes in a broken whisper.

She dissolves into desperation, and her eyes scorch with water as she caves forward, hiding her face behind her arms that are locked around her knees, with nails biting into her palms.

And for a while, it's quiet – she has no words left, and he can't find the right words to speak.

"Is that – how you lost your sight?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't answer for a moment.

"No," she says, her voice muffled. "No, that curse was something entirely different."

It's quiet again – because this time, he's run out of words too.

…

There is something oddly therapeutic about pacing corridors while listening to portrait chatter, she decides. Seeing only black, she can almost pretend that she's only just closed her eyes on the way to Quidditch practice with Harry, or to Transfiguration with Luna, or to the library with Hermione.

She can briefly slip into a world where _carefree_ is still a word written in her dictionary.

"Ginny."

Abruptly pulled from her thoughts, she stops in her tracks and turns towards him, surprised. "Hi, T – "

"Here." He takes her forearm and deposits something soft and light into her palm, and her fingers automatically close around it. "Lately it seems like I keep making you – well – tear up, so I – " He breaks off before saying, "It's a handkerchief."

"I – " Something warm flutters in her chest, but she falters when she catches the cloth's perfume. "It smells – "

"It's sprayed with diluted Amortentia," he says. "You were sick the day Slughorn covered it in Potions, but I thought – I've been doing a bit of research, but I – well, anyways, I figured – " A sigh. "Nevermind. I've got to go to class."

He disappears before she can thank him, which is just as well – because she has no voice with which to read the blank pages of her dictionary as she lifts the handkerchief to her face, engaged in combat with the pit of her stomach.

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* * *

Leave a signed review and I'll do my best to respond!

Happy Thanksgiving to me fellow Americans.


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! Just had my last final yesterday, in which I started just bubbling in patterns on the scantron. Reasons why I will never be a physics major.

Enjoy!

* * *

Because it's just like first year all over again, isn't it? Falling in love with the alluring words of an actor, with _Tom Riddle_, who sings only scripted words and nothing honest –

– even now, when she _knows_ who he is, she's still _stupid_ enough, weak enough, to fall a second time. To lose her heart to a boy just because he let her hold his hand and because he gave her a bloody scented scrap of cloth, because there's something hauntingly sweet about him during those Hogsmeade trips that plague her mind, because when she's with him, when she's with him it's like she can _feel_ again –

_And no_, she won't let this happen a second time.

She's not in love with Tom Riddle.

She isn't.

Her mind is exhausted, trying to differentiate between _this_ Tom Riddle and _that_ one.

…

"Ginny."

She smiles. "Tom. What does the world look like today?"

"Easy," he responds. "Light. A little too fairytale picturesque, though, if you ask me – blue skies, white cotton ball clouds."

"I take it your exams went well?" she asks, amused.

"Of course," he scoffs. "Did you doubt otherwise?"

"I wouldn't dare," she assures as they step into Hogsmeade together.

"This time next year," he muses, "we'll be done with our NEWTs."

She's trying not to think about how quickly time is passing. "Where will you be after?"

"We'll see," comes his automatic response before he hesitates, adding, "I think I'd like to be a professor here. I don't see myself anywhere but at Hogwarts."

She nods politely, and redirects the conversation. She doesn't like talking about the future.

At any rate, she can't see herself anywhere at all.

…

This isn't the first time she's desperately tried to hate, wrenching forward stained memories, one after another, a constant flow of hoarse cries.

_Voldemort Voldemort Voldemort_ – a mantra she mutters under her breath, shuddering each time she utters the forbidden name, waiting for a white mask with cruel lips to appear before her to remind her what it is to loathe.

But she's so _tired_, and vying for emotion is so draining.

And she thinks, maybe she'll never remember how to hate. Just as she thinks, maybe she'll never remember how to laugh again.

_Withered_, she thinks. That's the word she's looking for.

…

"A red light," she answers. "That's all I know. I don't know the incantation. The curse was done nonverbally."

She says nothing more on the subject of her blindness.

…

"Dippet says that I'll have to wait a few years after graduation before applying to be a professor," he muses into the silence, and the conversation has inevitably returned to the topic she fears. "Eighteen is apparently too young to teach."

She nods. "What will you do in the meantime, between graduating and then?"

"I'm still considering different options," he answers, but his voice has a defensive quality to it that surprises her. She doesn't know what she said to offend him.

Maybe, she thinks, he's self-conscious about his lack of definite plans, that he hasn't got everything sorted out cleanly for once. "Well," she tries, "graduation is still a year away. There's still time to decide."

He doesn't speak for a while, and she decides she must've been wrong in her conclusion – but she still can't fathom what she said wrong.

"I was thinking," he says, starting off with a little too much bravado to convince Ginny that he's as nonchalant as he's trying to be, "of going into research." He pauses, perhaps to gauge her reaction, but she still doesn't understand. "Slughorn recommended – well, with Grindelwald terrorizing Europe, the magical community is collectively researching dark magic and how to counteract it, to help the war's victims. It's a difficult process – it requires a whole different way of thinking, a different perspective on magic to be able to do such a job, and they need people."

He continues endlessly, afraid to give her the space to talk back. But for her part, she's afraid to think altogether, refusing to let the words _dark magic_ cling onto the fabric of her mind.

"And if I get into this project – well, Dippet said that the experience I'd gain working on countercurses would set me up well for being the Defense professor – but that's not what I wanted to say, it's more than that – Ginny, I'd have resources at my disposal that I don't have here, and a team of professional wizards who have dedicated their studies to this cause – and I think, maybe, we could get your vision fixed."

She's afraid of him being anywhere near dark magic – because the temptation is so strong, and the world would collapse again the moment he succumbed to it. And she still doesn't know if he's fooling her, like he did in the diary, so that she might sanction his efforts to study an art that killed her. Like he did in another universe with Slughorn, procuring his knowledge of Horcruxes.

But – what if it isn't the same? After all, did he need her to sanction his actions at all? He doesn't need her. She has no connections to offer him, no secret passageways to happy towns to show him once they leave Hogwarts.

And she longs for his sincerity. A clawing desperation in her heart calls for her to believe him, but she can't – even if his scent lingers on the handkerchief tucked into the inner breast pocket of her robes.

"I've been doing some research here," he admits. Robes rustle, and he passes a familiar book into her hands.

The diary.

Her heart catches.

"Well – you can't read it – but I've been taking notes in it. But I haven't found enough to – well…" He trails off. "Especially since I don't know – "

She is a rope stretched taut, caught between a war of two opposite emotions, neither of which she dares to dwell upon.

"You don't have to do this for me," she says quietly, timidly.

"Well, then," he says stiffly – indifferently – with a touch of coldness? – "I understand. I'll have my book back."

The skin across her knuckles are dry and tight as she grips the journal, as she forces herself to loosen her fingers and release the book, letting it fall onto the table that separates them.

She hears its pages splatter across the wood, and Tom's hiss makes her wince.

She knows for sure, this time, that she's done something wrong.

…

And even if she is – if she _is_ in – in love with him – it would only be a matter of time until he breaks her again. Abuse her love, and strip her down to a broken body held together only by the tattered remains of a withered soul.

And she won't have it. She won't, she won't allow it, she'll never let him ruin her again.

She's no romantic. She doesn't believe in soul mates, in one true loves. She knows that love comes and goes in tides, and that no sort of honest love would keep someone a prisoner forever.

Regardless, it doesn't help that _today_ she is swept in such a tide, and she doesn't know how to tread water.

…

"I never thanked you properly, by the way," she says suddenly, the words coming out unsanded and scraping her dry throat. "For the handkerchief," she clarifies as an afterthought.

Never, in the past six years, have they exchanged presents beyond actions and words. They both have nothing materialistic to give, and – at least for her – there is nothing materialistic that she desires. The dynamics of holiday and birthday gift-giving they have never engaged in, and that he would be the one to extend an offering to her…

And she realizes, how can she possibly change Tom Riddle – how can she possibly prevent him from becoming Lord Voldemort – if she doesn't let herself believe that he _can_ change?

That he is, currently, somebody else?

Somebody who could have another future.

She closes her eyes.

_It's not reincarnation…_

A leap of faith.

…_it's a second chance._

She can believe in a second chance.

It takes more courage than she's used to having, heartbeat thudding in her ears, as she untangles her hand from his and reaches up to find the curve of his face.

Does she dare…?

Pushing herself up on tiptoe – knowing that if she hesitates, she wouldn't, she couldn't, she _shouldn't_ – she quickly presses her lips against his cheek, ignoring the trepidation pooling in her stomach.

Because maybe she is in love with him. And maybe, even Tom Riddle deserves a second chance.

"Thank you," she says again.

Little fairies leave trails of tinted pink on her skin as they arabesque across their stage. She can feel the heat of their toes pirouetting on her cheeks, and the accompanying flutter in her heart.

…

For her, words have a way of being forever.

_what are you doing to me this this goddamn disease I suffer whenever I'm near you like suffocating_

They reverberate in the chamber of her mind.

_like drowning in something sticky and warm this infestation that's reduced my mind into a blurry fog get out_

They torture her.

_Clearmonte_

And she tortures herself with them, tracing their letters with her lips in still night.

…

"You're my favorite sister, you know that?"

It wins a small smile out of her – no small feat in today's grey. "No, I didn't know," she says. "Thanks, George."

He squeezes her hand. "How are you doing?"

"Surviving," she answers. "Or trying to, at least."

"Aren't we all?" he muses humorlessly, and she hates it. She hates not hearing the smile in his voice. It's alien and picks at the wounds in her heart. "You're really going to go back in time?"

"Yeah," she says softly. "How could I say no?"

And there's a short burst of laughter – laughter with no gaiety, laughter to distract them both from the tears trying to escape their prison, from the fangs that pierce their lungs. "You know," he says, "you know, I can't help but think of it as a trade-off. Trading you in exchange for Fred. And _fuck_, Ginny – that's just not right. It's fucking _wrong_."

She shakes her head, releasing his hand to wrap her arms around him. "No, George, it'll be all right. I'll come back," she promises. "I'll come back as a long lost aunt, and I'll teach you and Fred everything you taught me – I'll teach you how to scale up the side of the Burrow, the secret passageways of Hogwarts, and how to properly make a mud pie."

"It's not the same," he says.

She can't argue with that. "It'll be all right," she repeats.

He sighs, encasing her in his own arms. "You know," he says, "it's bloody weird having to be comforted by your baby sister, when she's the one who's losing everything."

But they were all going to be losing everything – and she doesn't say it, because she knows he's thinking it as well.

…

She has upset him.

The kiss was too forward of her, and she should've hesitated, she should've _listened_ to the anthem that reason was chanting in her head – _no, no, no, no_.

But she's always been rash, and despite her endeavors to engage him in conversation, he remains rather aloof during their Hogsmeade treks and – to her horror – she feels his gaze to be more calculated, like he doesn't _trust_ her anymore.

They're already well into the first semester of their final year. She has more fingers than she has months left with him, and she's destroyed the progress she's built over the previous years in hastily brushing her lips against a freshly shaved jawline.

And because she can't bear it, she pretends that nothing's wrong. That he's always been so distant with her, that his gaze has always been analyzing everything.

Because when she thinks otherwise, a painful shock rips through her and tears the seams that hold her soul and body together –

The shock of slamming against unforgiving concrete, falling after a blind leap of misplaced faith.

In a matter of days, the Hogsmeade visits would cease altogether with eight words –

_I don't want to see you ever again._

…

Each word he spits is another dementor's kiss placed upon her lips.

"Tom – "

"I said, get _out_." There is no velvet in his voice, not anymore. There's never been any velvet in his voice – not for her, not when he speaks to her – but right now, his voice is the opposite. A jagged blade, unpolished, chipped edges.

"Please – "

Her own voice hangs – a broken whisper that falls on broken ears.

And a knife – jagged, unpolished, chipped – lodges itself beneath her ribcage.

Her soul is smothered.

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* * *

Please leave a review on the way out! Critiques are, as usual, adored.

Here's to hoping the world doesn't end in a few days. Happy holidays everyone!


	10. Chapter 10

There were three reasons I really wanted to write this story.

1. A less traditional writing style. I've played around with other styles before, but only in one-shots – never in multi-chapter works.

2. An exercise in building a tangible universe for the story, even when the descriptions are stripped of the visual imagery I usually depend on. …Didn't really work out, I cheated…

3. …I forget the third reason, but I'm sure it's there somewhere. :3

This is the first new piece of HP fanfiction I've published in two years, and even though it's one of the least popular stories I've produced, I really enjoyed writing this and I'm even somewhat proud of it. Though I do need to go back and rework some scenes and sew some parts together. (Or, more like, give this story a draft number two.) The first two chapters are especially awkward and need to be redone.

I hope it proved an enjoyable read for you. **Thank you so much for following with this story.**

**And ** **if any of you are interested or willing to beta this story, or at least offer a bit of feedback on how I can improve, please let me know!** I'd love to talk over with you on how I can really perfect this. It'll be especially great to have input from someone who knows what it's like to read this story from a reader's perspective, without knowing what each scene meant the first time around.

Now, after that long ramble…

Enjoy the final chapter!

* * *

She's taken to keeping a diary – a series of letters on scraps of parchment, all addressed to the same person.

Sometimes she makes the hike to the Owlrey, tying that day's entry to an extended talon, sending it into open air. These letters are mere memos, short and near empty.

But mostly, her letters are lengthy, and she places them on a damp towel and ignites the parchment. A missive sent to the heavens for no one to read.

…

_Dear Tom,_

_I thought I'd be the one to tell you what the world looks like today, for once._

_Today, the sky is painted black, and the ground opens up to the color of agony. I guess it's always been that way, ever since my sight was darkened. But in the past few years, I didn't notice it as much. The shadows didn't seem so dark._

_Now they're darker than ever._

_It's all cheers to you._

…

_Dear Tom,_

_I'm no poet – you know this. You know about that horrible excuse for a limerick I composed first year for Harry._

_But I have words to tell you, so I'll say it as frankly as I can:_

_Lord Voldemort's hate would exemplify itself in curses, hexes, sneers, pain. Death._

_Your hate is silent._

_And it's worse than the gnarring wistfulness of unrequited love. Your hate is cold and callous, and it hollows out my ribcage with a blunt pickaxe._

…

_Dear Tom,_

_I don't know why I write you these letters. It's as if I'm purposely trying to relive my first year again. My real first year, not the first year I spent with you. My real first year – the one where I opened your diary, and you tried to kill me. That doesn't make any sense, does it?_

_Whenever I finish a letter – an entry – whatever this is – I always hesitate. Because I know you're not going to write back. You won't even read it, because I won't give it to you. And even if you did respond – I couldn't read your reply, anyways._

_And the bloody thing is, I'm always torn about how I feel – relieved, disappointed, confused._

_Mostly confused._

…

Sometimes, while walking down empty corridors as she always does, she catches scent of him.

And it doesn't matter what she does – if her heart freezes or races, if her feet falter or slip, if she speaks or stay silent – his reaction is always the same.

"Tom – "

His reaction is nothing.

…

_Dear Tom,_

_You asked me how I lost my vision. I told you how, but not why._

_In my universe, you were despicable. A tyrant. You killed friends and tortured families, all in the name of power._

_And we were losing to your reign._

_I was sent here, to this time, to create a new universe for the world – a universe where you allowed life to live. I did it for the people I loved, and for the people who deserved more than what you served them. I did it for everyone._

_Lately, I've been doing it for you, too._

_But what I wanted – before I came here, before I gave up everyone and everything I knew – I wanted to fight. I wanted to be angry, I wanted to properly hate you – and act on that hate – one last time._

_That's when I lost my sight. In that last battle._

_It's really all because of you, isn't it? It seems my whole life revolves around you._

_Fuck you._

…

_Dear Tom,_

_Do you know I can't remember the voices of my closest friends anymore? The ones back home, where I'm from. Luna, Hermione, Harry – I've forgotten the inflections of their voices. I don't remember which sound is which._

_I've forgotten._

_All I can remember are their faces, and I paste them against the black I see every day._

_In fact, the last thing I ever saw – before a flash of red light – the last thing I saw, it was a face._

_It was because I saw that face that I went blind._

_I think he was just trying to protect me. Protect my mind, that is._

_I wish he'd forgiven himself about that by the time I left. It wasn't his fault._

_It was yours, of course._

…

To give up.

Verb.

To let your muscles breathe, let your soul rest, at the cost of cloaking your shoulders with the desolation of failure and letting your heart weep.

She's almost reached this definition, turning the pages of her dictionary.

…

_Dear Tom,_

_Do you remember the story you told me as I lay dying in the Chamber? I remember it, nearly word for word._

_The last thing you said to me was – "Put your silly wants to rest, and sleep your happily ever after."_

_Sometimes I wonder if I didn't end up dying in the Chamber, and the time since then has all been a dream._

_But it can't be, can it? Even though sometimes I feel like I'm walking through a dream world, this is hardly any happily ever after, is it?_

_And so it must be reality._

…

_Dear Tom,_

_I suppose I shouldn't accuse you of so much. After all, it isn't you. It's the other you._

_But I'm afraid you'll turn into the other you. Graduation is approaching, and you still refuse to acknowledge me._

_I'm frantic, Tom. I've lost my mind._

_At the very least, I guess you can't say anymore that my worries are petty anymore, can you?_

_I was forced to mature too soon._

…

"Professor Dumbledore."

The pressure of the photo album against her chest does little to reassure her as she walks forward.

"I – I have something for you, sir."

…

_Dear Tom,_

_I had six brothers. You know this._

_You killed one of them. Not by your hand specifically, but it was because of you that he died. He was killed by your cause._

_I killed the other five when I fell through time._

_But in a way, they were already dead. We all were._

_You can't really label what we were doing as "living."_

…

_Dear Tom,_

_I can't help but blame you, I've realized. I can't help but blame you for everything that's happened to me._

_It distracts me from how I'm feeling now._

_And really, it's all your fault._

…

Closing the door to Dumbledore's office behind her, she inhales.

This is it. The end.

She would walk down these empty corridors one last time before boarding the Hogwarts Express – one last time.

She does her best to ignore the gravity of failure taking hold of her stomach.

"Dear Tom."

Words that echo against stone.

She knows that voice. Her heart skips a beat as she spins around, because – maybe –

"Tom," she says in surprised greeting.

"I should've known better," he continues reciting – or maybe reading, she isn't sure which – but regardless, he's ignoring her and quoting her words. "First year, I should've known better." Parchment crinkles, and she decides he must be reading the scraps she had sent him.

Her cheeks flame as he begins to read another note.

"Dear Tom," he says, "you're an utter bastard, and I wish that I could properly hate you, the way you abhor me."

The syllables slip off his tongue and melt onto the floor, and she tries to comprehend the fact that he's here – speaking to her, as if nothing had happened. As if these past few months, there has been no cold war between them. He's here, acknowledging her – something she has despaired of. She's suspended in emotion, afraid to hope. As desperate as she is to move on from him, to be _done_, she can't.

And she's both slightly frightened and horrified, that he's clutching the words of her heart in his hands. Because as inadequate as they are, words have power.

The floor trembles with her as he takes another step closer, and parchment gives another dry laugh.

"Dear Tom, you can take back the handkerchief. It smells like you, and I don't care for it." Another step. "P.S. How dare you make me fall in love with you."

The heat spreads to the back of her neck. "I didn't think you actually read them," she admits. "Or at least, care enough to keep them."

"No?" he questions lightly, in a way that makes her think it was meant to come off as dry amusement – but for a resonating timbre that betrays his anxiety of receiving her answer.

Then suddenly, she's overwhelmed by his presence, his aura pressing against hers – and he's close enough that she can feel the warmth radiating from him, and it does nothing to quell the red that fans her cheeks.

"I didn't – I _don't_ – abhor you," he says quietly. "Since that last Hogsmeade trip – I haven't gotten better. I kept telling myself that I didn't need – that I was better off without – that I – " He breaks off, and his breath is hot as he exhales.

Her heart counts the seconds of the quiet that follows.

"These past few days," he says, his throat dry, "I've been thinking about what happens tomorrow, and I realized – well – "

His voice trails to silence, and then she feels a slight tugging at her elbow where he captures the fabric of her robe sleeves. And just as she did during that first Hogsmeade trip, he follows the fold down to her hand, lifting it and depositing a square of cloth, his fingers closing her own around it.

"You can keep the handkerchief," he tells her. "It smells like you, and I don't care for it."

Two hearts hammer to the same rhythm –

_love me_

_love me_

_love me_

She's too afraid to respond – as if any sound or movement would shatter the fragile air that caresses them.

He speaks for her.

"Did you mean it?" he asks. "Did you mean what you wrote?"

_love me_

_love me_

Words – words she didn't know she had left, after writing all those burned letters – they push forward and tumble from her lips. "More than you know."

_love me_

His hand tightens its grip on hers. "I can't be your saint," he cautions her.

"You can't," she agrees readily. He's not Harry, and she doesn't want him to be the green-eyed savior.

Because he's Tom Riddle. He's somebody that _this_ Wizarding world has never seen before, somebody remarkable, somebody far from generic.

And he is his own imperfect person.

"But will you let me be yours?"

She's not perfect either – but maybe what they both need is each other.

Maybe she could be his fallen angel.

…

_Dear Tom,_

_There's a little more to the story of my blindness._

_On the battlefield, I tried to take down as many as I could. I wasn't leaving until the itch in my wand hand had been scratched._

_But then I dueled him – the one who took away my sight – and my spell missed and instead grazed the hood that covered his head. Underneath was orange hair that I recognized._

_My family, we all had orange hair._

_In an instant, I reached for the mask that obscured his face and tugged it away –_

_And it was him. Charlie._

_I had thought him dead. We all – we all hoped that he was dead, almost, because that meant nothing worse could happen to him. One day, he hadn't returned from a mission for the Order._

_He wasn't killed, as it turned out. He was put under the Imperius, following your orders for Merlin knows how long. You corrupted him, forced his hand to do dark magic that no one should ever have to do._

_I remember a fleeting flicker of recognition in his eyes before the clouds overtook him again, and spiteful voices in his head told him to kill me._

_But he couldn't. I was his baby sister, the one he used to coddle – because he loved me._

_The curse that fired at me was meant to blind me. He said, later, that he didn't want me to recognize him, because he knew it would break my heart, to realize what had happened – but it was too late, I had seen, and the voices were already starting to chant in his head again, and the curse that ended up flying from his wand point was a dark one that would blind me permanently._

_I don't regret being blind. He returned, a month or two later, while I was learning to adapt. That moment of recognition was enough to stir something back up within him, and with time he managed to fight off the Imperius._

_My blindness meant that I could at least hear his voice again before I left. My blindness returned him to the family._

_What I do regret – what I regret is the emotion that overtook me when I was dueling him, when I was not yet aware that he was my brother. Hate, vengeance, fury. I wanted to kill._

_How many others have I hated, have I wanted to kill, without knowing who they were? How many other masked murderers were spelled just as Charlie was – husbands, wives, ripped from their own families?_

_I've tried to hate since then. Mostly, I've tried to hate you._

_But I can't do it without breaking down in guilt._

_At any rate, that's the last story I have left. I've told all the other stories already in these vanished ashes, in these past few months of silence. And soon, this letter will join its brothers in a world of cinders._

_Tomorrow, the Hogwarts Express is headed for King's Cross. And when we ride it, we won't ride it back to Hogwarts as well._

_A one-way ride._

_Goodbye, Tom. I hope you do good things in your future._

…

You already know how the story ends.

"Where will you go once we leave?"

She doesn't know. "Anywhere that'll take a blind girl who doesn't fit in."

His knuckles kiss her cheek as his fingers snake behind her neck, guiding her forward until their foreheads touch.

"Stay," he begs of her.

Two unspoken words: _with me._

His lips hover over hers. What he asks isn't a choice for her.

"Okay," she breathes.

Where else could she go? _Would_ she go?

Heads shift, lips graze, and twin heartbeats race.

And Ginny sees something – _someone_ – beautiful.

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Thank you again for following this story. I loved writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Two things –

Again, **I'm looking for a beta to rework this story.** Talk themes, flow, pacing, rearranging some scenes. Clarify what's still unclear. Drop a review, a PM, a telepathic message…

Also, **I've written a spin-off story for this fic.** As of right now, it's called _And the Seven Victims_, and it's the bedtime story Tom conjured up for Ginny as she was passed out in the Chamber of Secrets. It's a short story – like, really short. Roughly 800 words – and I hope to release it soon! :D

As usual, reviews are adored.

Thanks for sticking this one out with me!


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